KAKEMONO 

JAPANESE  •  SKETCHES 


A.  HERB  AGE -EDWARD; 


I     LIBRARY^ 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

!       SAIN!  DIEGO 


KAKEMONO 


Books  on  Japanese  Subjects 


A  Handbook  of  Modern  Jap  an.  By  Ernest  W. 
Clement.  With  two  maps  and  over  sixty  illus- 
trations from  photographs.  Fourth  Edition. 
Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.40  net. 

Japan  As  It  Was  and  Is.  A  Handbook  of  Old 
Japan.  By  Richard  Hildreth.  Edited  by 
Ernest  W.  Clement,  with  an  Introduction  by 
William  Elliot  Griffis.  With  maps  and  numer- 
ous rare  illustrations.  In  two  vols.,  cloth,  121110, 
$3.00  net. 

Arts  and  Crafts  of  Old  Japan.  By  Stewart  Dick. 
With  thirty  illustrations.  Gray  boards,  8vo, 
$1.20  net. 

Far  Eastern  Impressions.  Japan,  Corea,  and 
China.  By  Ernest  F.  G.  Hatch,  M.  P.  With 
three  maps  and  eighty-eight  illustrations  from 
photographs.  Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.40  net. 

Kakemono.  Japanese  sketches.  By  A.  Herbage 
Edwards.  With  frontispiece.  Cloth,  8vo, 


The  Makers  of  Japan.  By  J.  Morris.  With 
twenty-four  illustrations.  Large  8vo,  $3.00  net. 

McDonald  of  Oregon.  A  Tale  of  Two  Shores. 
The  chronicle  of  the  earliest  Japanese  refugees 
to  land  in  America,  and  of  the  first  Americans 
who  visited  Japan,  later  to  act  as  interpreters 
to  Perry.  By  Eva  Emery  Dye.  Illustrated  by 
W.  J.  Enright.  8vo,  $1.50 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

CHICAGO 


KAKEMONO 


JAPANESE   SKETCHES 

BY 

A.   HERBAGE   EDWARDS 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

LONDON:  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 
I9O6 


American  Edition  Published  Sept.  15,  1906 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
Bound  by  Lakeside  Press,  Chicago 


TO  MY  TEACHERS 
THE  PEOPLE  OF  JAPAN 


CONTENTS 

THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

PAGB 

I.    DAI  BUTSU 3 

II.  THE  SHRINES  OF  ISE 5 

III.  THE  TEMPLE  OF  NIKKO 8 

IV.  KANNON,  LADY  OF  MERCY           ......  14 

V.    RINZAKI'S  ALTAR IJ 

VI.   TWO  CREEDS .  IQ 

VII.   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  NOSELESS  JIZO         ....  22 

VIII.   THE  TEMPLES  OF  SHIBA .27 

IX.   AMIDA  BUTSU 31 

X.   ST.  NICHIREN 34 

XI.    BETWEEN  EARTH  AND  HEAVEN 36 

XII.    INARI,  THE  FOX-GOD 39 

XIII.  THE  ALTAR  OF  FIRE 42 

XIV.  FORGOTTEN  GODS 48 

LORD  FUJI 

I.   PROLOGUE 55 

II.   THE  ASCENT 57 

III.  EPILOGUE 99 

THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

I.   GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT IO3 

II.    IN  A  CLOISONNE  FACTORY IIO 

HI.  FLOWER  ARRANGEMENT 114 

IV.  GOD'S  MESSENGER Iig 

V.  THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  122 


viii  CONTENTS 

SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

I'AGE 

I.   THE  MOAT 157 

II.   A  RAINY  DAY 159 

in.  MME  (PLUM  BLOSSOMS) 161 

IV.   WET  LEAVES 163 

V.   ASAMAYAMA 165 

VI.   CAMELLIAS         .           * 176 

VII.    RAIN 178 

VIII.  THE  BLACK  CANAL l8l 

IX.   THE  INLAND  SEA 184 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

I.   ACROSS  THE  LAGOON 193 

II.   TO  KIZUKI igg 

III.  IZUMO'S  GREAT  TEMPLE 2O4 

IV.  KIZUKI'S  BAY 211 

V.    IN  MATSUE 214 

VI.  THE  TWO  SPIRITS 235 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

I.   TOKYO 243 

II.    EAST  AND  WEST 255 

in.  YONE'S  BABY 257 

IV.   THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  R5NIN «6o 

V.   THE  DOLLS'  FESTIVAL 263 

VI.   WITH  DEATH  BESIDE  HER 266 

vii.  KYOTO'S  SOIREE       ........  269 

vin.  NO 273 

IX.   A  JAPANESE  BANK-HOLIDAY 278 

X.   THE  PALACE  OF  THE  SON  OF  HEAVEN        ....  282 

XI.    AND  SHE  WAS  A  WIDOW 285 

GLOSSARY 293 


THE  FAITH    OF  JAPAN 


"  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions." 

John  xiv. 

Teushi  ni  kuchi  nashi  hito  o  motte  iwashimu. 

*'  Heaven  has  no  mouth,  it  makes  men  speak  for  it." 

Japanese  Proverb. 


I 

DAI    BUTSU 

(GREAT  BUDDHA) 

THE  great  God  Buddha  sits  peaceful  and  still,  a  line 
of  dark  bronze  against  the  blue  sky,  and  the  length  of 
the  garden  is  flooded  with  light.  Two  tall  pink  cherry- 
trees  drop  blushing  snowflakes  on  to  his  broad 
shoulders,  and  the  sound  of  running  water  is  a  liquid 
prayer.  Under  his  heavy-lidded  eyes  he  looks  as  one 
who  saw  not,  or  saw  too  well,  and  his  slow  smile  is 
inscrutable  and  still.  The  mystery  of  it  draws  one 
nearer. 

What  is  thy  secret,  Great  Lord  Buddha  ? 

But  the  heavy-lidded  eyes  droop  lower,  and  the  slow 
smile  is  still.  Only  the  cherry-trees  send  their  pale 
pink  petals  floating  downward  into  the  bronzed  lap. 
And  the  murmuring  water  runs  more  swiftly. 

Immutable  he  sits,  and  still ;  enduring,  unchanging, 
though  the  sea  destroy  his  temples  and  the  earth- 
quakes rock  about  his  feet.  Buddha  on  his  lotus-leaf  is 
still. 

And  the  generations  of  men  rise  up,  and  pass  away, 
fretted  with  life's  fitful  fever,  and  searching  for  his 
secret.  Buddha  is  still,  his  slow  smile  unchanging,  his 
heavy  eyelids  drooped. 

Is   that   thy   secret,    Great    Lord    Buddha  ?      The 


4  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

mystery  we  passion-swept,  ever-changing  mortals  can 
never  penetrate  ? 

"  God  is  the  same,  for  ever."  The  same,  and  for 
ever? 

And  the  murmuring  water  runs,  the  cherry-trees 
bloom  and  fade,  the  centuries  pass  away.  Still  the 
heavy-lidded  eyes  are  drooped,  the  slow  smile  is 
inscrutable  and  still.  Lord  Buddha  keeps  his  secret. 

Or  is  it  only  we  who  cannot  read. 


II 

THE    SHRINES    OF    ISE 

ON  every  side  the  circle  of  the  hills  shuts  out  all 
sounds,  and  the  vast  forest  stretches  solemn,  sombre. 

The  long  two  miles  of  white  road  from  the  village  are 
forgotten,  the  crude  sunshine  of  the  public  gardens 
fades  away,  the  giant  fir-trees  stand  as  they  stood  two 
thousand  years  ago  when  the  shrine  of  the  great  Sun- 
Goddess  first  was  born. 

The  broad  grey  path  of  unhewn  stone,  unshadowed  in 
the  darkness  of  the  trees,  bends  downward  to  the  river's 
brink,  where  a  grey  still  pool  lies  silent  on  the  edge  of 
the  rushing  stream.  It  is  the  Pool  of  Purification  where 
all  who  go  up  to  the  temple  stay  and  wash.  Even  the 
kurumaya  who  daily  draws  the  pilgrim  or  the  stranger  to 
the  shrine,  stoops  to  plunge  his  hands  and  feet  into  the 
still  grey  waters.  And  as  he  does  so  a  great  shaft  of 
sunshine  hits  the  weltering  circle  of  the  hills  beyond  the 
stream,  and  they  quiver,  blue  as  a  distant  mirage  in  the 
blue  sky  ;  while  the  forest  is  the  darker  for  that  light. 

The  grey  stone  path  is  long  and  wide,  the  forest 
vast,  unfathomable ;  primaeval,  untamed,  and  yet  kept 
with  a  care  that  leaves  no  trace  behind  ;  the  forest  of 
a  dream  where  Death  is  not,  nor  decay,  nor  any  sign 
of  man.  From  time  to  time  the  dark  stern  stems  of 
the  cryptomerias  are  broken  with  the  glossy  deep- 


6  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

green  leaves  of  a  camphor-tree ;  and  each  time  my 
Kummaya  stays  to  pray,  for  camphor-trees  are  sacred, 
and  their  bark  thrown  into  the  sea  has  power  to  calm 
the  waves. 

And  the  forest  stretches  on  and  on. 

In  the  distance  the  grey  stone  path  broadens 
into  a  flight  of  shallow  steps,  and  passes  beneath  an 
open  gateway  out  of  sight.  A  wooden  wall,  like  the 
sloughed  bark  of  forest  trees,  stretches  right  and  left ; 
and  against  it,  rigid  in  his  discipline,  the  white  uniform 
of  a  modern  soldier,  bayonet  fixed. 

I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  the  most  sacred  spot  in 
all  Japan. 

Beyond  the  gateway  is  another  gate,  where  a  pure 
white  curtain  falls,  fold  on  fold.  It  is  the  veil  of  the 
great  Sun-Goddess.  All  through  the  ages  since  first 
the  nation  was,  the  shrine  of  the  Sun-Goddess  has 
stood  behind  that  veil.  Every  twenty  years  night 
comes,  her  temple  dies,  and  again  is  born,  unchanged, 
unaltered  to  the  last  least  detail.  And  her  priests 
are  the  carpenters.  So  through  all  the  ages,  the  body 
of  the  great  Sun-Goddess  glows,  in  youth  eternal,  and 
none  save  her  far-off  offspring,  Tenshisama,  the  Son 
of  Heaven,  may  pass  behind  the  veil. 

The  Japanese  soldier  stays  to  guard,  for  did  the 
stranger,  sacrilegious  in  his  foolish  pride,  so  much  as 
touch  those  long  white  folds,  evil  might  befall  him. 
Viscount  Mori  died  beneath  the  sword  of  a  samurai 
for  lifting  but  the  edge  of  the  curtain  with  his  stick. 

My  knrumaya  is  on  his  knees  before  these  fluttering, 
mysterious  folds,  two  claps,  a  bow,  a  little  murmured 
prayer  ;  another  bow,  two  claps,  and  he  rises. 

Then  he  leads  us  along  inside  the  wooden  wall,  and 
another  grey-green  wooden  wall,  built  as  it  were  of 


THE  SHRINES  OF  ISE  7 

flattened  tree-trunks,  rises  on  the  other  side,  leads  us  a 
few  yards,  and  then  he  stops.  The  outer  wooden  wall 
runs  round  a  huge  imperfect  square,  then  comes  a 
broad  band  of  space  where  we  are  standing,  and  then 
the  inner  wall  rails  out  the  world.  Inside  and  opposite 
the  curtained  gateway,  but  with  the  whole  distance  of 
the  sacred  square  between,  stands  the  shrine  itself,  a 
grey-brown  wooden  building,  unpainted,  unadorned  ;  a 
grey-brown  roof  of  thatch,  with  the  cross-beams  of  its 
roof-tree  rising  up  through  the  thatch  in  two  rough 
wooden  anchors  bound  with  gold.  A  building  that  is 
simple,  with  a  simplicity  more  strange  to  modern 
man  than  the  strangest  complexity,  archaic,  primaeval, 
a  ghost  from  man's  dim  past. 

The  silent  sombre  trees  stand  thickly  round.  Beyond 
the  circle  of  blue  hills  shuts  out  all  sounds.  The  folds 
of  the  white  curtain  fall  straight  and  close. 

My  kurumaya  prays  again. 

And  there  behind  her  veil  the  great  Sun-Goddess 
dwells,  untouched  by  time,  of  an  age  with  the  hills, 
more  primitive  than  the  forest  trees — and  sacred  still. 


Ill 
THE  TEMPLE  OF  NIKKO 

IN  all  the  pomp  of  splendour  and  of  power  they  buried 
lyeyasu  at  Nikko,  and  the  greatest  artists  of  Old  Japan 
came  and  built  in  his  memory  a  temple  more  beautiful 
than  any  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
For  more  than  forty  years  they  worked,  and  brains  and 
money  and  labour  were  poured  out  like  mountain 
water,  until  the  temple  stood  complete,  the  mausoleum 
of  lyeyasu  and  the  eternal  monument  of  this  artistic 
race. 

With  Buddhist  rites  was  the  great  Shogun  buried, 
and  for  many  hundred  years  daily  remembered  in  a 
ritual  as  solemn  as  it  is  effective,  but  Buddha  himself 
has  not  anywhere  a  temple  so  splendid. 

They  buried  lyeyasu  at  Nikko,  not  in  the  town  of 
his  birth  or  of  his  death,  not  in  the  city  over  which  he 
ruled,  but  four  days'  journey  from  Yedo  in  the  midst  of 
the  mountains  ;  and  they  did  it  that  Japan's  greatest 
ruler  might  lie  amid  the  nation's  best  in  nature  as  in 
art,  that  to  the  splendour  of  the  temple  the  Land  her- 
self might  add  the  glories  of  her  mountains  and  her 
trees. 

At  Nikkd  is  the  great  Shogun  buried,  and  for 
twenty  miles  before  his  shrine  a  stately  avenue  of  trees 
leads  up  to  the  temple,  and  up  this  avenue  prince  and 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  NIKKO  9 

pilgrim  yearly  come  ;  prince  and  pilgrim,  priest  and 
peasant  they  still  come,  up  the  great  avenue  of  dark 
thick-set  cryptomerias,  the  giant  pine-trees  of  Japan. 

At  the  temple's  foot  a  mountain  stream  rushes  in  a 
deep  green  gorge,  and  two  bridges  cross  the  stream  : 
one  bright  red,  the  bridge  of  the  Son  of  Heaven,  one 
painted  green,  for  the  rest  of  this  world's  humankind. 

And  the  reason  is  that  when  the  Buddhist  saint  Shodo 
Shonin  pursued  the  vision  that  had  been  sent  to  him, 
he  journeyed  into  the  mountains  many  days  until  the 
grey  torrent  of  Nikko  rushing  tumuhuously  across  his 
path  barred  the  way  ;  but  the  vision  abode  with  him, 
and  Shodo  Shonin  knew  that  he  must  cross  the  stream, 
yet  was  there  neither  bridge,  nor  boat,  nor  crossing- 
place.  So  the  saint  kneeled  down  and  prayed.  Then 
there  appeared  to  him  an  angel,  clothed  in  black  robes 
and  blue,  wearing  a  string  of  skulls  around  his  neck, 
and  holding  in  his  hand  two  serpents,  these  he  threw 
across  the  stream,  and  they  became  a  bridge  firm  and 
strong.  So  Shodo  Shonin  passed  over  the  torrent  in 
safety,  but  when  he  looked  back,  snakes,  bridge,  and 
angel  had  vanished  and  only  the  rushing  river  re- 
mained. Then  for  a  memory  the  two  bridges  were 
built  in  the  very  place  of  the  crossing. 

Of  all  the  marriages  of  Art  and  Nature  the  Sacred 
Red  Bridge  of  Nikko  is  the  most  beautiful.  Scattered 
among  hills  and  trees  and  river,  beauty  lay ;  but  this 
people  coming  through  the  mountains  saw  the  one 
bond  that  had  power  to  bind  the  pale  blue  hills,  the 
dark  green  gorge,  the  stone-grey  stream  together  in 
an  ordered  whole  of  deep-thought  artistic  loveliness, 
planned,  perfect,  yet  supremely  natural. 

Then  the  avenue  goes  on,  up  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
till  it  widens  and  broadens  into  a  great  gravel  circle 


io  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

before  the  entrance-gate  of  the  temple.  Here  the 
great  trees  of  the  mountains  spread  out  and  up  on 
either  hand,  with  the  temple  in  their  midst  sur- 
rounded but  not  overwhelmed  by  the  grace  of  the 
wood.  Under  the  granite  tort,  the  first  gateway  is 
guarded  by  two  figures,  the  mythical  lions  gilded  and 
lacquered  ;  while  above,  the  mysterious  baku,  with  his 
four  ears  and  his  nine  tails,  who  has  power  to  eat  all  bad 
dreams  that  pass  before  sleeping  eyes,  crouches  alert. 

A  flight  of  granite  steps  leads  to  the  first  courtyard, 
set  at  right  angles  to  the  gateway,  and  paved  with 
rounded  grey  pebbles  from  the  stream.  Here  are  all 
the  minor  buildings  of  the  temple,  the  stable  for  the 
sacred  white  horse,  the  library  for  the  two  thousand 
sutra  of  the  Buddhist  scriptures,  the  tank-house  for 
the  purification,  the  store-houses  for  the  temple  furni- 
ture ;  and  stable  and  library,  tank-house  and  store- 
houses are  jewelled  gems  of  carving  and  design,  so 
rich,  so  splendid  in  the  ordered  magnificence  of  their 
colouring  that  western  senses  stand  amazed.  A 
blood-red  lacquered  fence  aglow  with  coloured  carvings 
divides  the  temple  from  the  sombre  majesty  of  the 
giant  cryptomerias. 

Then  the  pebbled  space  contracts  into  a  flight  of 
granite  stairs,  and  mounts  between  stone  walls 
that  end  in  painted  friezes  of  carved  wood  to  a  second 
courtyard.  This  is  almost  square,  and  standing  on 
the  wide  grey  sweep  of  rounded  pebbles  are  three 
bronze  lanterns  from  the  three  tributary  kingdoms 
of  Old  Japan — from  Korea,  Luchu,  and  Holland; 
and  there  in  serried  rows  and  ranged  against  the  blood- 
red  lacquered  fence  aglow  with  gilded  carvings,  stand 
multitudes  of  bronze  lanterns,  which  the  dead  daimyo 
of  Old  Japan  sent  as  offerings  to  the  temple. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  NIKKO  n 

Beyond  the  lacquered  fence  the  dark  still  stems  of  the 
pine-trees  range  out  of  sight. 

Then  the  pebbled  space  contracts  again,  and  a  flight 
of  granite  steps  leads  between  granite  walls  set  with 
coloured  friezes  of  carved  wood  to  the  third  courtyard ; 
and  the  colourless  pause  of  the  second  court,  with  its 
bronze  lanterns  on  grey  stones,  gains  a  new  meaning 
as  one  mounts,  for  in  the  third  courtyard,  between 
the  blood-red  friezes  with  their  riotous  coloured 
carvings,  is  the  pure  perfection  of  the  Yomei-mon,  a 
double  gateway,  of  white  lacquer,  cream-white  and  sup- 
ported by  four  pillars  of  carved  wood.  And  when  they 
put  the  fourth  pillar  in  its  place  they  planted  it  upside 
down  fearing  if  the  beauty  of  the  temple  were  all- 
perfect,  evil  might  befall  the  house  of  Tokugawa 
through  the  jealousy  of  high  heaven. 

And  the  stranger  as  he  draws  near  pauses  in  sheer 
amazement ;  the  wild  untamable  beauty  of  the  mighty 
temple  set  in  its  giant  framework  of  dark  green  trees 
is  strange  beyond  believing. 

On  either  hand  stretches  the  tropical  splendour 
of  the  blood-red  lacquered  fence,  set  with  coloured 
carvings  as  with  shining  jewels.  Behind  is  the  pale 
glory  of  the  Yomei-mon.  All  around  the  darkness 
of  the  forest  lies  like  a  still  quiet  tomb.  And  in 
front,  rising  in  lines  of  sheer  perfection,  is  the  white 
beauty  of  the  Chinese  gate,  cream-white,  adorned 
with  glittering  yellow  brass,  brass  in  rounded  sunken 
medallions  on  the  lintel  and  the  gate-posts,  brass  in 
quaint  designs  and  shining  points  of  yellow  light,  which 
break  about  the  whiteness  as  sunshine  through  a  mist. 

The  carvings  and  the  pattern,  the  picture-panels, 
the  decorated  eaves,  the  chiselled  heads  and  sculptured 
birds  and  beasts,  the  growing,  glowing  flowers,  the 


12  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

hanging  lotus-bells  that  tinkle  at  the  corners  of  the 
tent-curved  roof,  and  all  perfect,  are  more  than  a 
man's  mind  can  perceive  though  he  look  for  many 
years.  Brains  and  money  and  labour  were  poured  out 
here  like  mountain  water,  and  like  the  rushing  stream 
of  Nikko  the  drops  go  unperceived  in  the  beauty  of 
the  whole. 

In  the  short  space  of  forty  years  were  the  temple  and 
its  fences,  the  gateways  and  the  carvings,  completed  and 
set  up  ;  but  forty  short  years  from  first  to  last,  and  the 
carving  of  one  gateway  is  more  than  a  lifetime's  work. 

Then  the  splendour  culminates.  Beyond  the 
Chinese  gateway  is  the  actual  shrine  itself,  its  cream- 
white  gateway  studded  too  with  brass,  while  superb  in 
the  utter  beauty  of  their  carving,  two  writhing  dragons 
stretch  on  either  hand  between  the  door-post  and  the 
pillar.  Inside  is  the  temple  of  the  memorial  tablets, 
where  with  daily  rites  the  Buddhist  priests  prayed  for 
the  soul  of  lyeyasu.  To-day  the  Buddhist  emblems 
are  all  gone,  the  shrine  is  bare.  A  shinto  rope  of 
rice-straw  stretches  from  post  to  post,  the  mirror  of 
the  Sun-Goddess  shines  above  the  altar  for  her  son, 
the  "  Son  of  Heaven  "  Tenshi,  the  Mikado,  has  come 
back  to  his  own. 

All  the  magnificence  of  the  temple  now  is  in  its  walls, 
walls  of  panel  carvings  where  the  springing  phcenix 
and  the  crouching  lion  rise  like  pale  shadows  from  the 
pale  unstained  wood,  so  little  are  they  raised  above  the 
surface.  And  yet  the  artist's  hand  that  carved  them  was 
without  a  rival  in  the  world.  They  are  real  and  living, 
delicate  and  true,  and  so  entirely  beautiful  that  the  heart 
cries  out  with  joy  as  at  a  long-lost  good.  Here  is  no 
colour,  the  sweep  of  pale  yellow  matting,  the  panelled 
walls  of  pale  dust-coloured  wood,  are  more  light  than 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  NIKKO  13 

colour.     Here  the  rich  joy  of  sense  is  laid  aside  :  the 
temple  stands  a  beauty  immaterial. 

Through  three  hundred  years  they  prayed  for 
lyeyasu  daily  with  long  rites,  but  his  tomb  is  not  here. 

It  lies  beyond  the  temple  and  above  it.  One  climbs 
to  it  by  a  long,  steep  stair  of  grey-green  granite,  set  in 
the  sombre  hill.  A  stairway  built  of  granite  in  long 
slabs,  so  broad  and  thick  that  the  balustrade  with  its 
coping,  base,  and  sculptured  columns  is  all  cut  from 
one  solid  block,  with  each  block  fourteen  feet  long. 
And  the  stairway  took  thirteen  years  to  quarry  and 
set  up. 

The  hillside  is  steep,  the  stairs  are  many,  and  the 
tall  dark  pines,  the  flame-red  maples  gather,  gather 
till  the  temple's  roof,  the  sound  of  praying  bell  or 
chanted  hymn  is  lost.  The  little  space  which  Art 
stole  from  Nature  is  completely  hidden,  even  the 
forest  has  forgotten. 

And  the  grey  stair  climbs,  climbs  among  the  dark- 
green  trees,  then  stops. 

On  the  top  of  the  hill  is  a  rounded  curve  of  stately 
pines.  Alone,  solitary  between  sky  and  trees,  stands  the 
tomb  of  lyeyasu,  a  domed  pillar-box  of  bronze  glinting 
golden  through  the  trees.  A  low  stone  wall  surrounds 
the  tomb,  a  bronze  door  solid  but  uncarved  is  its  gate- 
way, and  that  is  all.  Here  among  the  quiet  trees,  in 
the  stillness  of  the  forest,  above  the  splendour  of  the 
temple,  lie  the  ashes  of  the  great  lyeyasu. 

All  the  days  of  his  rule  he  dwelt  among  men,  but 
his  soul  climbed  the  steep  stair  of  Life,  casting  off  its 
splendours  and  its  glories,  climbed  above  them, 
climbed  back  into  the  eternal  simplicity  of  Nature,  and 
there  he  laid  him  down  to  rest. 


IV 
KANNON,  LADY  OF  MERCY 

IT  was  \hefete  of  Kannon  of  Asak'sa,  whose  votaries 
are  many.  They  thronged  the  narrow  paved  pathway 
set  between  the  two  long  rows  of  red  brick  stalls,  and 
overflowed  into  the  temple  grounds  behind,  where  the 
iuggler  and  the  wax-works,  the  two-headed  porpoise, 
and  the  headless  man,  and  all  the  long  scale  of  attrac- 
tions in  between  shouted  and  drummed.  All  the  fun 
of  the  fair  was  here,  with  the  advantage  of  ^  petit  bout 
de  messe,  to  save  the  soul,  over  the  way. 

Kannon  of  Asak'sa  is  a  popular  lady,  and  her  doors 
stand  wide  open.  You  may  go  in  with  your  boots  on. 
It  is  true  that  the  goddess  herself,  on  her  gilded  altar, 
is  railed  off  from  public  touch  by  a  wire  netting — like 
the  animals  in  the  menagerie  outside.  But  that  is  all 
the  privacy  she  enjoys,  and  the  rest  of  her  temple  is  as 
public  as  a  railway  station,  and  just  about  as  sacred. 
The  people  pour  in  up  the  steps  on  all  sides,  the 
scraping  of  their gheta  on  the  dirty  wooden  floor  adding 
its  quota  of  noise  to  the  chink  of  money  and  the  buzz 
of  voices,  the  ringing  of  bells,  and  the  hurry  and  bustle 
of  a  surging  railway  crowd.  There  is  the  same  wide- 
open,  doorless  feel,  the  same  discomforting,  amphibious 
sensation  of  neither  open  air  nor  closed  house.  A 
large  bookstall  in  the  corner,  selling  the  latest  illus- 


KANNON,  LADY  OF  MERCY  15 

trated  numbers  of  the  goddess,  and  the  whole  stock 
of  Kannon  literature  adds  to  the  illusion.  Between 
two  pillars  a  temple  clerk  issues  tickets  at  a  substantial 
booking-office.  A  shaven  official  appears  and  rings  a 
bell  at  intervals,  reciting  a  prayer  in  the  voice  of  a 
railway  porter  proclaiming  stations.  There  is  the 
same  reasonless  flux  and  reflux  of  the  crowd,  the  same 
rush  and  bustle,  with  its  inseparable  accompaniment 
of  underlying  roar  that  rises  and  falls,  sometimes 
absorbing  all  the  other  sounds  into  itself,  sometimes 
leaving  them  distinct  and  clear,  but  never  for  a  moment 
ceasing. 

A  huge  lacquered  case  like  a  square  coffin,  its  lid 
replaced  by  thick  metal  bars,  stands  between  the  book- 
stall and  the  booking-office,  right  against  the  wire 
netting.  Into  this  each  comer  throws  his  coin  before 
reciting  his  prayer,  and  the  chinking  of  the  money  as 
it  falls  is  as  unceasing  as  the  roar  of  the  crowd. 

Away  in  a  corner  behind  the  booking-office  a  worn- 
out  black  statue  sits  huddled  in  rags.  Around  it, 
bands  of  invalids  await  their  turn  to  rub  the  featureless 
figure  with  their  hands,  and  transfer  the  charm  by 
rubbing  themselves  in  the  corresponding  spot.  As  a 
method  of  propagating  disease,  this  treatment  for 
curing  it  can  have  few  equals.  But  the  coffers  of  the 
temple  profit  greatly. 

Business,  indeed,  is  brisk  to-day.  The  shaven- 
headed  booking-clerk  is  issuing  tickets  at  a  bank- 
holiday  rate,  and  the  bookstall  is  besieged.  Up  from 
all  sides  comes  the  tumult  of  the  fair.  Kannon  must 
be  a  paying  investment. 

As  I  stand  on  the  steps  with  the  din  of  the  temple 
behind  me,  a  man  in  the  crowd  below  buys  a  cage 
of  little  birds  at  a  stall,  and,  opening  the  door,  throws 


1 6  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

them  up  into  the  air.  The  startled  flutter  of  their 
wings  as  they  soar  up  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  into 
the  blue  carries  me  back  to  Ober-Ammergau,  to 
the  memory  of  the  overturned  tables  of  the  money- 
changers, and  the  overthrown  cages  of  those  who  sold 
doves. 

"  My  house  shall  be  called  the  house  of  prayer,  but 
ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  thieves." 

Is  human  nature  the  same  all  the  world  over  ?  Are 
priests  ?  Or  is  the  fate  of  all  religions  alike  ? 

O  Kannon  of  Asak'sa !  Kannon,  Lady  of  Mercy  ! 
how  long  must  thou  wait  for  thy  deliverer  ?  O  Lord 
Buddha,  how  long  ? 


V 
RINZAKI'S  ALTAR 

ON  the  edge  of  the  dark  hills  is  the  temple  of  Rinzaki, 
and  the  green  sea  of  the  rice-fields  washes  up  to  its 
open  doors.  Overhead  the  grey  sky  of  a  sunless 
summer's  evening  dims  all  the  colours  in  the  land,  and 
leaves  them  shadows.  It  is  fresh  and  still,  and  the 
wide,  green  bay  sweeps  in  smooth  curves  to  the  foot 
of  the  dark  hills.  On  the  pathway  the  hosts  of  little 
green  frogs  hop  like  hailstones,  and  the  startled  splash 
as  they  fall  back  into  the  rice-fields  is  sharp  and  clear. 

Rinzaki  stands  alone,  its  shoji  walls  pushed  back, 
and  the  slender,  square  pillars  at  each  corner  are  dark 
against  the  greyness.  The  open  matted  spaces  of  the 
temple  are  deserted,  and  the  stillness  is  pure  and  clear 
as  freshly  running  water.  In  the  sunless  evening  light 
the  sombre  colours  of  the  temple  are  but  light  and 
shadow,  a  sweep  of  pale  matting  under  a  dark  roof 
framed  in  grey.  And  the  stillness  grows  purer,  clearer, 
and  more  still. 

Beyond  the  open  spaces  of  the  matting,  between 
altar  wall  and  altar  wall,  the  garden  of  the  temple 
hangs,  a  living  picture  on  the  wall.  Two  kneeling- 
cushions  on  the  matting  mark  the  purpose  of  the 
garden,  and  I  stay  to  look. 

A  faintly  running  stream,  stone-grey,  a  shaven  slope 


1 8  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

of  green,  and  on  it  three  clipped  azalea-bushes  pink 
with  blossom.  So  still,  so  clear,  I  stretch  my  hand 
to  feel. 

It  is  a  garden — a  garden  painted  by  an  artist  who 
worked  in  earth  and  flowers.  And  the  dim  greyness  of 
the  temple,  the  pale  spaces  of  the  matting,  frame  the 
garden  as  a  shell  its  pearl.  I  could  but  look.  The 
pale  pink  of  the  azalea-bushes,  the  soft  curve  of  the 
slope,  the  stone-grey  of  the  running  stream,  were 
painted  with  the  loving  care,  the  certain  touch  of  a 
master's  hand.  There  was  no  fault.  Between  altar 
wall  and  altar  wall  the  living  picture  hung — perfect. 

Like  David's  harping  to  Saul  distraught,  the  still- 
ness of  the  garden,  the  dim  greyness  of  the  temple, 
washed  pure  the  heart.  The  sin-freed  soul  floated  out 
unfettered,  and  thought  was  not. 

Alone  the  garden  lay,  an  earthly  Nirvana  in  the 
stillness. 

Rinzaki's  true  altar  stood  here. 


VI 
TWO  CREEDS 

ABOVE  the  white  cloud  of  the  plum-blossoms,  through 
the  dark  wood  of  the  cryptomerias,  on  the  top  of  the 
hill  lies  the  temple  of  Ikkegami.  The  broad  spaces 
of  its  courtyards  and  its  gardens  are  sunny  and  still, 
and  the  blue  sky  above  is  a  bed  of  celestial  forget-me- 
nots.  Down  each  side  the  big,  dark  trunks  of  the 
giant  fir-trees  stand  straight  and  tall — two  rows  of 
sombre  pillars,  shutting  in  a  sunny  aisle. 

In  front,  at  the  end  of  the  wandering  white  path  of 
rounded  stones  sunk  into  the  bare  earth,  is  the  Hondo 
or  main  building  with  the  tent  curves  of  its  roof,  and 
the  polished  floor  of  its  veranda  shining  like  a  sword 
in  the  sun.  Behind  is  the  big  wooden  gateway,  and 
the  hundred  stone  steps  which  lead  from  the  hilltop  to 
the  village  beneath.  And  scattered  down  the  wide 
earth  courtyard,  and  half  hidden  under  the  dark 
arches  of  the  trees,  are  the  innumerable  little  buildings 
which  form  the  complete  whole  of  a  Buddhist  temple; 
the  belfry,  with  its  bronze  bell  hung  from  the  big 
wooden  beam  of  the  ceiling  to  within  three  feet  of  the 
ground,  and  the  polished  wooden  spar  with  which  it  is 
beaten ;  the  quaint  revolving  library — like  a  dwarf 
windmill  without  sails — where  the  hundred  volumes  of 
the  Buddhist  Scripture  can  be  dimly  seen  through  the 


20  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

thick  wooden  lattice ;  the  wide  granite  tank  under  its 
tiled  roof,  all  hung  with  lengths  of  brown  temple 
towels,  where  the  faithful  pour  water  over  their  hands 
from  bamboo  dippers  as  a  symbol  of  purification  ;  the 
side  chapels  with  their  drums  and  offerings.  All  are 
quiet  to-day  and  deserted,  only  by  the  side  of  the 
tank,  in  front  of  a  worn-out  stone  statue,  a  peasant 
mother  is  standing,  her  baby  tucked  in  the  back  of  her 
kimono — fast  asleep.  She  claps  her  hands  three  times 
to  call  the  attention  of  the  gods,  and  then  she  prays, 
and  the  baby's  shaven  head  nods  heavily  over  her 
shoulder.  Then  she  takes  the  bamboo  dipper  and 
pours  water  over  the  head  of  the  stone  statue,  carefully, 
that  not  a  dry  spot  may  remain,  and  prays  again. 

Between  the  dark  pillars  of  the  tree-trunks  and  the 
stamped  earth  of  the  courtyard,  a  line  of  narrow, 
pointed  laths  runs  like  a  wooden  fencing  round  the 
temple  precincts.  I  wonder  what  they  are  and  leave 
the  stepping-stones  of  the  pathway  to  see. 

Tombstones  ?  Yes.  Set  close  together,  and  some- 
times three  or  four  deep,  the  long  line  of  thin  pointed 
laths  closes  in  the  temple  and  its  courtyard  with  a 
fence  of  graves.  Not  a  rich  man's  graveyard  this, 
but  the  last  home  of  the  peasants  from  the  rice-fields 
and  the  fishermen  from  the  sea.  I  look  at  the  rows 
of  Chinese  characters  running  lengthwise  down  the 
narrow  tombstones,  and  stop  in  wonder,  for  on  one 
the  Roman  letters  with  their  familiar  outlines  stand  out 
plainly. 

"  To  the  Men  of  the  Warship  Onega" 

That  is  all. 

To  the  men  of  the  Warship  Onega  !  It  was  true 
then  the  story.  The  story  of  the  loss  of  the  Onega 
in  the  bay  below,  and  the  sale  of  the  sunken  wreck 


TWO  CREEDS  21 

with  all  its  contents  to  fishermen  along  the  coast. 
The  story  of  the  finding  of  the  corpses  of  the 
drowned  sailors,  all  entangled  among  the  wreckage, 
and  of  how  the  Japanese  fishermen  collected  them 
reverently,  saying,  with  the  faith  of  the  ancient 
Greeks,  that  their  souls  would  wander  restless  and 
distressed  unless  they  were  laid  in  their  graves  and  the 
funeral  prayers  sung  over  them.  So  they  sent  a 
petition  to  the  great  Ijin  San  in  Tokyo  praying  him 
to  come  to  the  temple  of  Ikk^gami,  that  his  dead 
brothers  might  have  some  one  of  their  own  race,  if 
not  of  their  own  family,  to  perform  the  last  solemn 
rites.  And  the  Ambassador  came  to  Ikkegami,  and 
the  long  line  of  weather-beaten  Japanese  fishermen 
bore  the  western  sailors  up  the  hill  to  the  temple,  and 
buried  them  in  the  courtyard,  under  the  silent  trees, 
with  all  the  rites  of  the  Buddhist  church.  And  they 
set  up  the  wooden  lath  as  over  the  grave  of  a  brother, 
among  the  long  lines  of  the  tombstones  of  their  fathers  ; 
but  they  wrote  on  it  in  the  tongue  of  the  stranger  so 
that  God  and  their  countrymen  might  know  their  own 
again. 

And  all  this  they  did  out  of  their  own  hearts,  and 
with  the  money  of  their  own  earning. 

So  the  men  of  Onega  lie  buried  with  Buddhist  rites 
in  a  Buddhist  churchyard,  and  the  wooden  lath  above 
their  graves  is  but  another  rail  in  the  holy  fence  of  the 
Japanese  dead  which  encloses  the  temple. 

The  long  arches  of  the  sombre  trees  are  dark  and 
still.  The  blue  sky  above  is  without  fleck  or  stain, 
and  the  peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  understanding 
is  spread  as  a  hand  above  the  tree-tops. 

The  men  of  the  Onega  sleep  well. 


VII 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  NOSELESS  JIZO 

IT  was  a  great  many  years  ago,  but  the  stone  Jizo 
stands  there  yet,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  beyond 
the  rice-fields.  The  blue  cotton  bib  around  his  neck 
is  new,  the  odd  little  piles  of  stones  that  balance  on  his 
shoulders,  cuddle  in  his  arms,  or  lie  around  his  feet  are 
larger,  for  kindly  hearts  have  passed  by  since  then,  to 
pick  up  a  stone  and  carry  it  to  Jizo,  who  helps  the  souls 
of  the  little  dead  children  crying  naked  on  the  banks  of 
the  Sai-no-Kawara,  because  the  old  hag  Shozuka-no- 
Baba  has  taken  their  clothes  away,  and  will  not  let 
them  pass  over  into  the  happy  land  beyond,  but  keeps 
them  piling  stones  on  the  banks  of  the  Buddhist  Styx, 
and  crying  bitterly. 

And  Jizo  sits  there  by  the  roadside  still,  the  same 
benevolent  smile  on  his  shaven  face,  still  holding  the 
pilgrim's  staff  with  its  metal  rings  in  one  hand,  and 
the  jewel  which  brings  all  wisdom  in  the  other.  Only 
he  has  no  nose.  He  lost  it  thirty  years  ago,  the  day 
little  Dicky  James  came  running  up  the  road,  his  new 
hatchet  clutched  in  his  hand. 

Now  Dicky  was  the  son  of  a  missionary,  and  he  had 
been  brought  up  on  good  books  and  Sunday  schools, 
and  the  night  before  he  had  been  taken  to  hear  the 
wonderful  experiences  of  a  "  brother  "  from  China,  who 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  NOSELESS  JIZO     23 

had  filled  his  little  head  full  of  "glorious  martyrdom," 
"sinful  heathen,"  "the  overthrowing  of  idols,"  and 
"the  abomination  of  desolation,"  which  Dicky  didn't 
understand  but  thought  meant  the  long  stretch  of 
muddy  rice-fields  down  beyond  Negishi.  And  that 
put  Jizo  into  his  head.  And  besides,  there  was  the 
new  hatchet. 

All  the  morning  he  had  played  Red  Indians,  until, 
in  an  access  of  realism,  he  had  almost  brained  the 
baby.  The  threatened  loss  of  his  hatchet  and  the 
great  idea  that  was  working  in  his  head  made  him 
quiet  and  subdued  all  through  dinner. 

He  was  sorry  about  baby,  "poor  little  martyr,"  as 
his  mother  called  her ;  and  the  idea  grew  and  grew. 
Why  shouldn't  he  be  a  martyr  too,  and  return  to  his 
family  covered  with  glory  ?  Then  the  thought  of  Jizo 
jumped  into  his  head.  He  would  go  out,  like  the 
"brother"  from  China,  into  the  "abomination  of 
desolation,"  and  "overturn  the  idol "  of  the  "sinful 
heathen."  Or,  at  least,  if  he  couldn't  overturn  it,  the 
new  hatchet  would  cut  off  its  head,  and  Dicky's  fingers 
itched  to  try.  He  had  no  idea  martyrdom  was  so 
interesting. 

So,  dinner  over,  Dicky  seized  his  hatchet,  and  started 
off,  away  from  the  settlement,  across  the  canal,  up  by 
the  racecourse,  and  down  the  hill  towards  Negishi. 
Here  he  took  to  the  shore,  to  avoid  complications  in 
the  village ;  for  Dicky  was  used  to  showing  his 
Christian  superiority  by  cuffing  the  heads  of  the 
heathen,  and  the  boys  of  Negishi  were  his  particular 
enemies.  So  the  tide  being  out  he  kept  to  the  shore 
until  he  was  past  the  village,  and  the  long  stretch  of 
rice-fields,  nothing  but  solid  ponds  of  black  mud,  each 
surrounded  by  a  little,  low,  mud  bank,  came  into  sight. 


24  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

"  The  abomination  of  desolation,"  said  Dicky. 

And  it  did  look  like  it.  He  went  on  along  the  narrow 
path  towards  the  hills,  with  the  wide  stretch  of  muddy 
ponds  on  each  side  of  him.  They  dwindled  away 
gradually  as  Dicky  went  up  the  valley,  dwindled  away 
until  they  only  looked  like  a  kind  of  mud  river  running 
between  the  green  hills.  And  there  beyond  the  last  one, 
on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  was  Jizo.  Jizo,  with  his  broad 
smile  and  his  funny  little  bib. 

Dicky  looked  about  him  nervously ;  the  great 
moment  had  come.  No,  there  was  no  one  in  the  rice- 
fields,  and  no  one  coming  after  him  from  the  village  ; 
and  Jizo's  smile  was  tempting.  Up  went  the  little 
hatchet  and  smash  down  with  all  Dicky's  strength. 
But  Jizo's  head  did  not  roll  in  the  dust,  as  it  ought  to 
have  done,  so  Dicky  tried  again.  He  was  getting 
excited  now.  It  was  so  beautiful  to  feel  his  dear 
hatchet  coming  down  smash,  smash,  smash,  and  to 
know  he  was  doing  the  "good  work"  at  the  same 
time. 

Smash,  smash!  This  time  something  had 
smashed,  and  Jizo's  stone  nose  lay  at  his  feet. 
Dicky  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  exultant,  and  in  the 
momentary  pause  heard  angry  voices  among  the  fields, 
and  feet  coming  swiftly  up  the  road  behind  him. 
Then  Dicky  forgot  all  about  "martyrdom"  and  ran 
as  fast  as  he  could  go,  across  the  bank  of  the  rice- 
field  in  front  of  him,  up  the  hill  beyond,  his  hatchet 
clutched  in  one  hand,  and  Jizo's  stone  nose  in  the 
other. 

It  was  the  rice-field  that  saved  him,  because  the 
men  had  to  go  round,  but  their  shouts  brought  out 
the  village,  and  the  sight  of  Jizo,  noseless,  sent  all  the 
angry  "heathen  "  up  the  hill  in  chase.  I  do  not  think 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  NOSELESS  JIZO     25 

they  would  have  hurt  him  if  they  had  caught  him,  for 
the  Japanese  are  not  fanatical,  and  they  are  very  kind 
to  children. 

It  was  just  this  feeling  that  made  them  so  angry 
now.  To  think  that  any  one  could  injure  Jizo;  Jizo  the 
friend  of  those  in  trouble,  the  comforter  of  women  in 
travail,  and  the  keeper  of  the  baby  souls  crying  naked 
on  the  dark  banks  of  the  Sai-no-Kawara.  I  do  not 
think  they  would  have  hurt  Dicky,  but  the  whole 
village  came  out  to  see,  and  the  men  and  boys  ran  up 
the  hills  around  shouting : 

"  Nan  des  ka  ?  Nan  des  ka  ?  What  is  it  ?  What 
is  it?" 

And  Dicky  in  his  terror  ran  until  his  little  legs  gave 
way  under  him,  and  panting  he  threw  himself  on  the 
ground  under  the  trees. 

The  shouts  had  died  away  a  long  while,  and  it  was 
growing  dark  in  the  wood  before  Dicky  stirred.  It 
was  darker  still  when  at  last  he  crept  cautiously  down 
the  hill  and  over  the  rice-fields  towards  the  stone 
statue  of  Jizo.  He  was  very  tired  now,  and  very 
hungry,  but  the  memory  of  the  angry  voices  calling 
after  him  in  the  hills  made  him  afraid  to  go  back 
through  the  village,  and  by  this  time  the  tide  was  up. 
So  Dicky  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Jizo  in  the  growing 
darkness  and  waited.  And  all  his  nurse's  stories  of 
Jizo  and  the  little  children  came  into  his  mind.  He 
looked  up  at  Jizo,  smiling  still  his  large  benevolent 
smile,  and  crept  nearer. 

It  was  quite  dark  that  evening  when  they  found 
Dicky,  his  head  peacefully  laid  to  sleep  on  Jizo's  feet, 
utterly  worn  out  with  the  pangs  and  the  excitement  of 
his  martyrdom,  his  little  hatchet  fallen  on  the  ground, 


26  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

but  one  grubby  fist  fast  clutching  something  that  even 
in  his  sleep  he  held  tight. 

But  Dicky's  taste  for  martyrdom  had  gone,  and 
once,  to  his  father's  horror,  he  was  heard  to  declare 
that  he  "  wished  he  was  a  heathen  because  he  would 
like  to  say  his  prayers  to  Jizo." 

In  the  deepest  depths  of  his  pocket,  next  to  his 
clasp-knife  and  his  favourite  ally  taw,  there  lived  for 
many  years  a  small  stone  object  that  he  sometimes 
took  out  and  looked  at  when  he  was  quite  alone.  And 
Dicky  had  serious  doubts  at  times  about  the  goodness 
of  the  martyrs,  and  the  sinfulness  of  the  heathen,  while 
his  ideas  on  idols  underwent  a  radical  change. 

It  is  thirty  years  ago  now.  But  the  legend  of  the 
noseless  Jizo  and  his  fight  with  the  Onigo  (the  devil  in 
the  shape  of  a  child)  is  still  told  in  the  villages  around 
Negishi. 

The  other  day  Richard  heard  it  himself. 


VIII 
THE  TEMPLES  OF  SHIBA 

A  MATCHLESS  blue  sky  overarches  the  world,  pale,  clear, 
intense,  and  the  twisted  green  boughs  of  the  Japanese 
pine  throw  their  gaunt,  black  arms  up  into  the  blue,  in 
the  vain  endeavour  of  a  hundred  years  to  reach  it. 
The  hush  of  cloistered  calm  in  which  the  trees  grew 
up  is  still  here,  although  the  Tokyo  citizen  walks  and 
rides  where  once  none  but  Buddhist  priests  might 
linger.  The  Red  Gateway,  with  the  tent  curves  of  its 
roof  petrified  into  grey  tiles,  still  claims  for  all  within 
Buddha  as  its  master. 

And  the  hush  of  cloistered  calm  grows  stiller. 

Through  a  wide  space  open  to  the  sky,  a  space  paved 
with  rounded  pebbles,  water-washed  for  many  years 
ere  they  floored  the  courtyard  of  the  House  of  God, 
believing  and  unbelieving  feet  have  beaten  smooth  a 
wide,  brown  pathway.  All  around,  and  arranged  in 
serried  rows,  stand  a  myriad  grey-stone  lanterns,  the 
pious  gifts  of  dead  daimyo.  Between  these  tall  stone 
emblems  of  the  five  elements  the  pathway  runs  ; 
cupola,  crescent,  pyramid,  sphere,  cube — ether,  air, 
fire,  water,  earth — and  the  crude  shapes  of  the  primi- 
tive elements,  touched  and  altered  by  generations  of 
artists,  are  turned  to  curves  of  quaintest  beauty. 
Diagonally  across  the  space  goes  the  black  pathway, 


28  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

the  standing  rows  of  tall  lanterns  thickly  set  on  either 
side,  until  beneath  another  gate  it  makes  a  pause.  A 
gate  of  red  lacquer  this,  with  carvings  of  gilded  wood 
on  ceiling  and  wall.  Carvings  full  of  that  oriental 
luxuriance  of  colour  and  line  which  half  shocks  our 
sober  northern  senses  ;  so  shocks  them  sometimes  that 
we  call  it  scornfully  "  barbaric,"  until  we  grow  wiser 
with  much  looking  and  learn  to  see  the  truth  and  beauty 
of  this  exuberant  splendour. 

Beyond  the  gateway,  the  black  path  leads  out  under 
the  blue  sky,  a  pebbled  square  on  either  hand,  set 
round  with  stately  rows  of  bronze  lanterns,  the  pious 
gifts  of  yet  greater  daimyo.  Another  gate  stands 
waiting  at  the  end  of  the  pebbled  square,  a  gateway 
with  rounded  wooden  columns  of  red  lacquer,  like  its 
fellow,  and  carvings  of  gold.  But  the  beams  of  its 
ceiling  have  been  smoothed  away,  and  in  the  centre  a 
much  twisted  and  curled  dragon,  which,  like  Joseph's 
coat,  is  of  many  colours,  writhes  across  the  ceiling.  A 
carved  and  gilded  gallery  stretches  away  on  either  side 
past  the  gateway.  Another  yet  more  beautiful,  with 
its  slender  square  pillars  of  red  lacquer  bound  at  base 
and  crown  with  beaten  brass,  leads  a  rainbow  shadow 
through  the  sunny  court  to  the  cool  dark  door  of  the 
temple  itself.  In  the  shade  of  the  gilded  galleries, 
suspended  from  the  red-lacquered  cross-beams,  hangs 
a  row  of  still  bronze  lanterns.  Dimly  in  their  exquisite 
shapes  can  one  trace  the  symbolised  elements. 

Behind  a  wooden  barrier  five  steps  lead  straight  to 
the  temple's  front,  closed  now  with  dark  blinds  of  split 
bamboo  bound  together  with  a  silken  thread.  The 
tiled  eaves  of  the  curving  roof  overhang  the  steps, 
and  between  door  and  lacquered  pillar  writhes  in 
many  wriggles  of  green  and  golden  carving  two  royal 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  SHIBA  29 

dragons,    the   Ascending   and   the    Descending — the 
going-up  and  the  coming-down. 

Leaning  on  the  barrier,  the  glory  of  those  golden 
dragons,  of  those  red  columns,  of  the  carved  beams 
and  inlaid  porch  rushed  riotously  into  the  soul.  And 
now  one  understood  the  preparation  of  those  succes- 
sive gateways,  set  each  between  a  sunny  space  of 
pebbled  court ;  for  the  first  had  shown  but  red  and 
gold,  up  in  the  ceiling  of  the  second  lingered  lines  of 
azure  blue,  the  third  added  green  to  the  other  three, 
the  gallery  gave  glances  of  mauve  and  violet,  while 
here,  under  the  eaves  of  the  temple  roof,  the  rainbow 
itself  is  glorious  in  carved  wood. 

A  culminating  point  of  colour  and  splendour,  what 
can  the  temple  hold  within  ? 

Cool  spaces  of  matted  floor  set  round  with  black 
boxes  on  black  stools,  each  box  holding  its  portion  of 
Buddhist  Scripture ;  sombre  pennants  of  dark  blue 
and  green  brocade  upon  the  walls  ;  a  sober  light  clear 
but  colourless  ;  and  which  is  more  beautiful,  the  rain- 
bow porch  of  many  colours  riotous  in  carving  and 
scrolls,  or  the  sober  quiet  of  the  temple,  a  beauty  of 
spaces  and  restraint  ? 

The  colourless  matted  room  is  wide  and  low.  In 
front  between  the  sombre  pennants  is  the  inner 
sanctuary.  Gods  on  either  side  on  lacquered  tables  set 
against  the  walls  ;  at  the  end,  beyond  more  lacquered 
tables,  two  brocaded  masses  rise  like  square  coffins  on 
a  raised  dais  ;  between  stand  figures  of  the  gods,  white- 
faced  Benten  and  Kannon,  Lady  of  Mercy.  The  red 
tables  bear  many-coloured  sweets  and  biscuits  heaped 
high  on  metal  plates,  in  metal  cups  ;  offerings  to  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  Shogun  whose  tablets  lie  enshrined 
behind  those  masses  of  brocade.  A  bronze  bowl  on 


30  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

the  floor  filled  with  grey  ash  sends  forth  filmy  clouds 
of  incense.  There  is  no  sound. 

Behind  the  temple,  through  two  open  spaces  of 
pebbled  squares,  each  reached  by  a  score  of  granite 
steps,  is  the  tomb  ;  a  smooth,  round  mass  of  stone 
encircled  with  a  breast-high  parapet  of  bronze  ;  all 
around  a  sweep  of  grey  pebbles. 

That  is  all. 

And  yet  standing  here  I  wonder  whether  the  dead 
Shogun  have  not  rightly  chosen  ?  Whether  their 
resting-place  is  not  more  truly  beautiful  than  the 
beauty  of  sombre  ornament  in  the  temple,  than  the 
riotous  carving  of  the  gateways. 

The  porch  was  Beauty's  body,  arrayed,  adorned; 
here  lies  Beauty's  soul,  naked  and  eternal. 


BUDDHISM  is  not  one  but  many  ;  the  same  faith  and 
the  same  nation  which  produces  the  squalor,  dirt  and 
commercial  profanity  of  Asak'sa  can  create  the  peace 
and  purity  of  Rinzaki,  while  Shiba's  riot  of  impossible 
colouring  is  born  of  the  same  religion  and  the  same 
people  as  the  stern  beauty  of  the  Hongwanji ;  for  the 
temples  of  the  Shin  sect  are  severe  as  a  Protestant 
cathedral,  as  a  Presbyterian  church,  only  they  are  built 
by  a  race  of  artists. 

Kannon  of  Asak'sa  is  popular,  but  the  beautiful 
Hongwanji  at  Kyoto,  finished  a  few  years  ago,  at  a 
cost  of  eight  million  yen,  was  built  mainly  by  the 
peasants,  who  contributed  not  only  in  money  but  in 
kind,  sending  their  most  beautiful  trees  to  be  cut  into 
beams,  offering  themselves  to  hew  and  to  build,  giving 
always  of  their  best.  And  each  beam  was  raised  to  its 
place  by  long  hawsers  made  of  women's  hair,  the  soft 
black  hair  of  youth  or  womanhood,  with  here  and  there 
the  shrivelled  grey  hairs  of  age.  And  the  hawsers 
are  suspended  in  the  temple  for  men  and  missionaries 
to  ponder  on. 

Buddhism  is  not  dead  but  living.  The  old,  the 
weary,  and  the  poorest  poor  creep  into  the  Hongwanji 
in  Japan,  and  the  pale  matting  of  these  temples  is 


32  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

covered  with  the  square-holed  copper  coins  worth  a 
quarter  of  a  farthing,  which  they  roll  over  the  matting 
towards  the  altar  from  the  corners  where  they  kneel 
and  pray. 

Nagoya's  Hongwanji  is  the  glory  of  the  town.  It 
stands  in  the  thick  of  the  city,  in  a  great  wide  court- 
yard of  stamped  earth  set  round  with  trees.  Its  sculp- 
tured gates  of  bronze  are  always  open,  and  once  inside 
them  the  busy  town  with  its  factories  and  its  work- 
shops, its  quarter  of  a  million  of  inhabitants,  is  gone, 
for  the  wide  courtyard  sets  a  lavish  space  of  stillness 
between  the  city  and  the  shrine.  A  space  so  wide  and 
ample  that  the  temple's  curves  stand  out  clear  and 
sharp  as  a  solitary  tower  on  an  empty  plain. 

Built  all  of  wood,  unpainted,  unstained  ;  and  so  faded 
by  the  sunshine,  so  worn  with  age,  and  weather  beaten 
with  the  wind  and  rain,  that  in  the  glow  of  the 
summer's  sun  the  temple  stands  against  the  brilliant 
light  faded  and  grey,  a  beauty  of  pathos,  not  of  joy. 

Under  the  eaves  the  saints  and  sacred  animals  are 
carved  in  tender  lines  of  love.  Age  has  touched  and 
left  them  colourless,  and  the  infinite  pity  of  the  Buddha 
which  enwraps  creation,  enfolding  man  and  his  brother 
the  beast,  looks  from  their  eyes. 

Inside  there  is  peace  and  sober  quiet.  A  wide  low 
space  suggestively  divided  into  three  with  slender 
square  pillars  of  wood,  and  behind,  along  the  whole 
width  of  the  temple  a  blaze  of  gold,  sombre  and  rich. 
No  riot  of  impossible  colouring  here,  no  profusion  of 
design  and  decoration  ;  sober,  almost  stern  in  its  beauty, 
the  centre  and  the  two  side  altars  shine  in  the  dim  light. 

A  bronze  figure  of  Buddha,  dead  black  against  the 
gold,  stands  on  his  lotus-leaf  with  uplifted  hands. 


AMIDA  BUTSU  33 

It  is  Buddha  as  the  God  of  Mercy,  the  living,  loving 
god,  Amida  Butsu — Eternal  Buddha. 

Dull  gold  and  black,  alive  in  the  altar,  shadowly 
repeated  in  the  pale  yellow  matting  and  in  the  grey 
age-stained  wood,  are  all  the  decoration  of  the  temple, 
save  perfect  purity  and  peace,  and  an  atmosphere  of 
quiet,  enduring  charity.  For  the  Shin  sect  teaches  that 
the  law  cannot  be  altered,  that  the  eternal  chain  of  cause 
and  effect  goes  always  and  for  ever  on,  that  the  wages 
and  more  than  the  wages  of  sin  is  death,  that  an  act 
and  its  consequences  roll  ever  onward  through  the  world, 
and  neither  man  nor  time  can  stay  them  ;  it  teaches  that 
a  man's  sorrows  are  made  by  his  sins,  but  that  Buddha 
is  merciful  and  just,  that  he  who  is  love  gives  love ; 
love  knows  no  sin,  nor  sin's  child,  sorrow  ;  without  sin 
and  sorrow  is  the  world  at  rest. 

Outside,  the  city  labours,  toils.  Within,  the  workers 
kneel  on  the  pure  pale  matting,  and  praying,  roll  their 
square-holed  coins  towards  the  image  of  Eternal 
Buddha,  whose  hand  is  raised  to  bless. 


SAINT  NICHIREN 

UP  a  hundred  steep  stone  steps  lies  the  temple  of  the 
Lord  Buddha,  for  Nichiren,  his  servant,  whose  head 
the  executioner's  sword  refused  to  cut  off,  died  here. 

Now  Nichiren  was  a  man  of  faith.  And  his  faith 
was  the  faith  of  the  average  man — he  knew  he  was 
right.  But  Nichiren  did  more,  for  he  had  the  courage 
of  his  opinions ;  and  he  said,  "  I  alone  am  right  ;  the 
rest  are  all  wrong,  unfaithful  servants  of  the  Lord- 
kill  them." 

And  the  people  believed  Nichiren,  for  is  not  such 
faith  in  one's  own  opinion  a  sign  of  divine  inspiration  ? 
And  did  not  the  Lord  Buddha  send  lightning  from 
Heaven  to  turn  the  edge  of  the  executioner's  sword 
and  save  his  pious  servant  ? 

So  they  followed  after  Nichiren  and  despised  the 
rest  of  the  church,  and  built  temples  of  the  true  faith 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  And 
the  priests  of  Nichiren  walked  in  the  steps  of  their 
master,  and  are — for  the  tolerant  Japanese — almost 
bigoted  and  fanatical. 

Now  the  Nichiren  priests  delight  in  noise.  Perhaps 
they  think — like  many  a  politician — that  it  takes  the 
place  of  argument.  And  so  their  temples  for  ever 
re-echo  with  the  banging  of  big  drums,  the  clapping  of 
wooden  clappers,  the  booming  of  big  bells,  and  the 


SAINT  NICHIREN  35 

eternal   chanting   of   the    Namu-myoho-rengekyo,   the 
formula  of  the  faith  of  Nichiren. 

In  the  little  side  temple  to  the  left,  wreathed  with 
paper  flowers  and  cheap  ornaments — for  Nichiren  has 
even  strength  to  blur  the  national  sense  of  art — they 
are  busy  now. 

A  priest  in  the  middle  crouches  on  the  ground  ;  on 
either  side,  before  a  big  drum  like  a  yellow  barrel  lying 
horizontally  on  the  ground,  sit  two  believers.  Behind 
are  grouped  three  more,  all  provided  with  clappers  or 
bells.  The  drumming  is  incessant,  the  clapping  nearly 
so,  while  all,  priests  and  people,  keep  up  one  never- 
ending  drone  of 

' '  Namu-  myoho-rengekyo,  Namu  -  my  oho  -  rengekyo, 
Namu-myoho-  rengekyo. " 

I  can  only  see  the  backs  of  the  group,  and  the  arms 
of  the  two  drummers  as  they  raise  them  up  above 
their  heads  to  beat  the  big  barrels  in  front  of  them. 
Suddenly,  from  round  the  corner  of  the  drum,  an  old 
face  peers — priest  by  its  costume  and  its  cunning.  An 
unshaven,  unkempt  face  that  blinks — dirty,  ignorant, 
bigoted.  It  crouches  there  on  the  matting,  the  old 
cunning  eyes  opening  and  shutting  with  each  repetition 
of  the  never-ending  formula, 

' '  Namu-  my  oho-  rengekyo,  Namu  -  my  oho  -  rengekyo, 
Namu-myoho-rengekyo"  until  sense  and  meaning  are 
lost  in  a  wave  of  wild,  brute  fanaticism. 

The  drums  bang  louder,  the  clappers  clap  shriller, 
the  bells  boom  quicker  and  quicker,  and  I  stand  there 
convinced. 

Namu  -  mydho  -  rengekyo,  Namu  -  myoho  -  rengekyo^ 
Namu-myoho-rengekyo. 

I  too  am  of  the  faith  of  Nichiren,  for  I  know  that  I 
am  right.  All  these  are  wrong,  unfaithful  servants  of 
the  Lord — kill  them. 


XI 
BETWEEN  EARTH  AND  HEAVEN 

FIVE  HUNDRED  feet  of  wall,  and  the  temple's  courtyard 
hangs  a  balcony  above  the  world. 

The  thousand  steps  by  which  I  climbed  are  hidden,and 
the  cha-ya,  in  the  width  of  the  brown  road  that  touches 
cliff  and  sea,  is  so  beneath  my  feet  that  its  roof  seems 
resting  on  the  ground.  My  kurumaya,  in  his  white  hat, 
is  a  growing  mushroom  on  a  dark  blue  stalk.  The  man 
is  but  a  human  atom  crushed  between  two  immensities. 

From  cliff  to  distant  sky  the  wide  sea  spreads  out, 
a  vast  still  plain  of  shimmering  blue.  This  ball  of 
earth  is  rolled  out  flat  before  my  eyes,  and  its 
mysterious  ends  are  a  far-off  rim,  dark  blue  and 
clear.  Overhead  the  burnished  sky  shuts  down  a 
domed  cover  on  the  flattened  earth.  The  very  sea 
seems  hot.  My  kurumaya,  sitting  on  the  slender 
shafts  of  \\isjinriksha,  fans  himself  with  his  hat,  and  I 
am  startled  to  see  how  perfectly  the  three-inch  figure 
works. 

The  world  lies  all  spread  out  below  me, here  is  nothing 
but  the  temple  and  the  sun. 

Across  the  burning  courtyard  where  the  sun  smites 
the  rounded  pebbles  with  hard  shafts  of  light,  and 
through  the  open  doorway  in  the  temple's  wall,  I 
go,  and  then  the  silent  shadows  of  the  trees  fall  all 


BETWEEN  EARTH  AND  HEAVEN          37 

around.  The  sky  above  their  tops  is  bluer,  the  very 
sunlight  brighter  for  the  shade. 

The  temple's  shrine  is  built  upon  a  polished  raft  of 
wood,  moored  three  feet  above  the  ground.  Its  walls 
are  dark  with  matted  blind.  Only  the  square  door- 
posts stand  clear  against  the  light,  and  through  them 
I  see  the  bareness  of  the  shrine — a  sweep  of  pale  mat- 
ting on  the  floor,  and  then  dim  space.  Alone,  the 
burnished  mirror  of  the  great  Sun-Goddess  hangs  above 
the  altar. 

On  the  threshold  of  his  temple  stands  the  high 
priest,  attended  by  two  acolytes.  He  wears  a  head- 
dress of  black  lacquer  like  a  perforated  meat-cover, 
but  the  face  beneath  is  old  and  very  calm.  He  bows 
as  I  mount  the  shallow  polished  steps  which  lead  up 
from  the  ground,  takes  from  the  black-robed  acolyte  a 
slender  silver  vase,  and  a  shallow  terra-cotta  bowl. 
Standing  shoeless  on  the  threshold  of  the  naked 
shrine  he  slowly  pours  the  sacred  sakd  from  the 
silver  vase  into  the  terra-cotta  bowl,  and  gives  me  to 
drink.  The  bowl  is  black  with  age,  the  sakt  thick, 
like  distilled  honey ;  and  I  notice,  as  I  drink,  the 
carved  figures  running  round  the  rim,  and  the  faint 
scent  of  plum-blossom. 

Without  a  word  the  white-robed  priest  takes  back 
the  cup,  and  offers  me  a  thin  rice-wafer  which  I 
break  and  eat.  I  wonder  what  the  rite  may  mean  that 
I,  a  stranger,  may  partake,  and  look  up  to  see  the 
calm  old  eyes  looking  down  at  me,  at  my  outlandish 
clothes  and  foreign  face ;  but  he  does  not  speak. 
Then  with  a  gesture  which  is  almost  a  blessing,  the 
white-robed  priest  is  gone,  and  the  acolytes  follow  after. 

The  temple's  shrine  stands  bare  and  bare,  only  the 
burnished  mirror  of  the  great  Sun-Goddess  glitters. 


38  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

Was  it  a  Passover  that  we  have  eaten  together  ? 
Or  a  Eucharist  ?  Or  merely  the  symbol  of  our  human 
brotherhood  ? 

We  are  all  children  of  the  Sun  ;  and  Faith  is  One. 

Yet  it  needed  a  Shinto  priest  in  far  Japan  to 
show  me  a  religion  above  nation,  beyond  race,  above 
sect.  But  his  shrine  is  bare.  The  Mirror  of  Truth 
hangs  solitary  above  his  altar,  and  his  temple's  doors  are 
open  to  the  Sun. 


XII 
INARI,  THE  FOX-GOD 

THE  green  tongue  of  the  rice-fields  thrusts  itself  deep 
into  the  blue  sea,  and  its  tip  is  lacquered  red. 

Haneda-no-Inari  is  a  temple  whose  gateways  have 
swallowed  up  its  shrine,  and  on  the  low,  flat,  head- 
land its  many  thousand  tori  in  rows  of  scarlet 
dolmens  walk  inland  from  the  sea.  The  green  point 
lies  a  henna-stained  finger  in  the  lap  of  the  ocean. 

Beyond  the  red  tip,  a  ridge  of  pearl-grey  sky  rests  on 
the  water,  while  overhead  the  clouds,  like  piled-up 
snowflakes,  melt  into  the  blue. 

It  is  the  end  of  September,  and  wide  through  the 
land  the  rustle  of  ripening  rice-ears  comes  and  goes. 
Haneda-no-Inari,  the  Rice-God,  is  calling  the  peasants 
to  his  shrine.  And  they  come  ;  broad-shouldered, 
bullet-headed  men,  in  short,  blue  tunics  and  dark 
lue  hose,  with  brown  weather  -  beaten  faces, 
seamed  and  lined ;  and  always  their  hard  hands,  half 
shut,  half  open,  as  though  still  holding  hoe  or 
plough.  Old  most  of  them,  and  with  that  half-deaf 
look  which  years  of  fieldwork  brings.  Intelligences 
half  shut  too,  shutting  fast  on  the  primary  ideas 
of  life,  on  the  traditions  of  their  fathers ;  for  a 
thought,  like  the  hoe  or  plough,  is  too  precious  a 
thing  to  be  lightly  laid  aside  ;  it  is  bequeathed  from 


40  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

generation  to  generation  as  are  the  rice-fields  beneath 
their  feet. 

Inari  calls,  and  the  peasants  come.  Not  only  for  the 
sake  of  the  Rice-God,  though  the  rustle  of  the  ripen- 
ing rice-ears  is  a  music  in  the  land,  but  because  the 
image  of  the  fox  has  dwelt  so  long  in  the  Rice- God's 
temple  that  to  the  peasant  Inari  is  both  Fox-  and  Rice- 
God.  And  the  fear  of  the  Kitsun6  is  a  power  in 
Japan.  The  Kitsun6t  who  can  take  a  woman's  shape 
and  bewitch  you  ;  the  Kitsunt,  who  can  beguile  a  man 
that  he  follow  to  the  fox's  very  hole  and  stay  there 
living  on  snails  and  worms.  The  KitsunJ,  who,  enter- 
ing a  man's  body  under  his  finger-nails,  will  possess 
it,  so  that  he  howls  like  a  fox,  slowly  changes  into  one, 
and  dies.  And  so  they  come  to  the  temple,  up  from 
the  rice-fields,  up  under  the  scarlet  tunnels  of  the  tori, 
for  the  passing  through  each  tunnel  means  a  wish 
fulfilled. 

The  gateways  indeed  have  swallowed  up  this  shrine. 
There  is  no  temple,  only  a  low  matted  booth  ;  at  the 
back  two  white  china  images  of  the  Fox-God,  his 
tail  curled  high  above  his  head,  and  a  priest  on  the 
matting,  as  a  shopman  at  his  stall,  selling  charms, 
multitudes  of  miniature  china  foxes,  words  on  rice- 
paper,  and  mounds  of  earth,  a  whole  shopful  of  charms 
and  amulets. 

Opposite  is  a  row  of  rabbit  burrows,  each  roofed 
with  a  shelving  stone;  just  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
but  full  of  meaning  to  the  peasant,  for  it  is  the  home 
of  the  Kitsund,  and  he  crouches  on  the  ground 
in  front  of  it,  his  head  between  his  knees,  or  thrust 
far  into  the  big  burrow  in  the  eagerness  of  his 
prayer.  And  his  face  works ;  the  priest  behind  him 
watches.  Kitsunt,  is  a  reality  to  him,  a  force  strong 


INARI,  THE  FOX-GOD  41 

as  Nature's  laws,  but  capricious ;  so  he  prays.  Then 
half  in  fear,  half  in  reverence,  he  thrusts  one  arm 
as  far  as  it  will  go  into  the  hole,  and  scraping  softly 
brings  back  a  handful  of  brown  earth.  His  face  lights 
up,  and  the  priest  behind  leans  forward. 

Still  on  his  knees  the  peasant  wraps  the  magic  earth 
in  layers  of  clean  rice-paper  and  puts  it  carefully  away  in 
the  breast  of  his  patched  tunic.  Then  he  gets  up.  He 
has  his  charm,  a  remedy  against  sickness  and  disaster, 
a  charm  for  his  rice-fields  and  himself.  The  priest 
behind  reaches  out  his  hand.  He  makes  a  keen  shop- 
keeper, and  his  celestial  wares  are  never  stolen.  The 
temple  terms  are  "  cash  down,  and  prayers  not  taken 
in  exchange." 

Through  the  long  scarlet  tunnels  of  the  tort,  back 
to  the  ripening  rice-fields  the  peasants  go.  The  green 
point  lies  a  henna-stained  finger  in  the  lap  of  the 
ocean.  Haneda-no-Inari,  the  temple  of  the  supersti- 
tious, glows  a  living  tip  of  red. 

For  its  sins  are  as  scarlet. 


XIII 
THE  ALTAR  OF  FIRE 

IT  all  happened  in  a  suburban  temple  in  the  town  of 
Tokyo,  at  the  time  of  the  blossoming  cherry-trees  ; 
and  the  prosaic  din  of  a  modern  city  full  of  trains  and 
tramcars  hemmed  us  round.  We  had  been  conscious 
of  it  dimly  throughout  the  long  ceremonial  within  the 
temple,  where  Shinto  priests  in  brocaded  robes  chanted 
in  twos  and  threes,  in  solo  and  in  chorus ;  where  the 
old  High  Priest  had  blessed  with  long  strange  rites 
the  four  elements,  earth,  which  is  the  mother  of  all 
things,  fire,  water,  air ;  had  blessed  the  rice  by  which 
the  people  live,  salt,  and  sake  ;  but  now  that  we  were 
all  assembled  in  the  outer  courtyard  the  noise  of  a  busy 
city  came  distinctly  to  the  ear.  Tokyo  was  working 
hard  this  April  afternoon,  and  the  cries  of  the  news- 
paper boys  pierced  up  shrilly  from  the  street  below. 

In  the  courtyard  the  ancient  vestments  of  the 
priests  showed  strangely  beside  the  modern  frocks  of 
American  visitors,  the  tweed  suits  of  a  party  of 
Cook's  tourists,  even  beside  the  kimono  of  the  Japanese 
crowd,  so  markedly  Tokyo  and  Meiji  (age  of  enlighten- 
ment), in  their  felt  hats,  cloth  caps,  and  "  bowlers." 

The  courtyard  was  big,  the  native  crowd  railed  in 
at  one  end  left  a  large  space  bare,  and  here  in  the 
centre  of  the  stamped  brown  earth  a  great  pile  of 


THE  ALTAR  OF  FIRE  43 

burning  charcoal  was  heaped.  Twenty  feet  long,  and 
nearly  as  many  broad,  it  glowed  a  solid  mass  of 
quivering  heat,  while  priests  at  each  corner  stood 
fanning  the  sullen  red  to  an  ever  fiercer  flame.  It  was 
not  hot  enough  yet,  and  in  the  sunshine  of  that  April 
afternoon  we  waited. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  courtyard  a  broad  band 
of  salt  lay  on  the  brown  earth  like  a  white  step  to 
the  altar.  The  great  fans  of  the  fanning  priests  sent 
puffs  of  heat  across  the_court  that  made  the  distin- 
guished guests  shrink  back.  And  yet  the  glowing 
charcoal  pyre  was  not  hot  enough. 

Behind  us,  in  a  corner  of  the  courtyard,  stood  a 
bamboo  ladder,  whose  every  rung  was  made  of  the 
razor-blade  of  a  Japanese  sword,  set  edge  upwards. 
As  we  all  stood  waiting,  watching  the  solid  altar  of 
red  flame  grow  redder,  a  young  man  came  out  of  the 
temple  and  crossed  the  court.  He  was  dressed  in  the 
short  white  tunic  of  religious  festivals,  and  his  legs 
and  feet  were  bare.  He  bowed  to  the  party  of  dis- 
tinguished guests,  to  the  priests,  to  the  old  High 
Priest,  and  from  his  manner  I  judged  him  not  a  priest, 
but  a  temple  attendant. 

Among  the  crowd  there  was  a  murmur,  a  sway  of 
intense  excitement,  and  then  a  dead  stillness.  In  the 
stillness  the  young  man  put  his  bare  foot  upon  the 
lowest  rung  of  the  ladder,  and  an  involuntary  shudder 
went  through  us  all.  A  large-checked  tourist,  pushing 
every  one  aside,  rushed  up  to  the  ladder,  and  felt  a 
sword-rung  with  his  hand.  Then  he  came  back,  and 
across  his  open  palm  a  ruled  red  line  of  blood  rose  up 
swiftly. 

There  was  a  whispering  among  the  priests,  a  com- 
motion in  the  crowd,  but  the  polite  expressions  of 


44  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

regret  from  the  old  High  Priest  were  courtly  with 
honorifics.  The  large-checked  tourist  tied  his  hand  up 
clumsily  in  his  own  pocket-handkerchief,  and  looked 
annoyed.  The  fanning  priests,  with  rhythmic  move- 
ments of  their  hands  and  bodies,  chased  the  living 
heat  across  the  court,  and  did  not  pause. 

Again  there  was  a  murmur  in  the  crowd,  a  stretching 
of  necks  to  see,  and  a  dead  silence. 

The  white-tuniced  attendant,  who  had  stood  quite 
still  beside  the  ladder,  placed  his  bare  foot  upon  the 
lowest  rung,  and  I  saw  the  large-checked  tourist  wince  as 
though  his  injured  hand  were  there  instead.  Lightly  as 
a  sailor  climbs,  the  young  man  ran  up  the  ladder  rung  by 
rung,  and  neither  hands  nor  feet  grew  red.  On  the 
top  he  stayed,  looking  down,  and  a  shudder  like  a  cry 
of  pain  went  through  the  courtyard.  Then  he  turned, 
hanging  for  one  brief  moment  by  his  knees  on  the 
topmost  rung — turned,  and  came  down  again. 

In  the  April  sunshine  the  sword-blades,  from  top 
to  bottom  of  the  ladder,  glittered  spotless. 

Firmly  on  his  bare,  brown  feet  the  young  man  walked 
across  the  court,  bowed  to  the  party  of  distinguished 
visitors,  to  the  priests,  to  the  old  High  Priest,  and 
disappeared  within  the  temple. 

The  crowd  behind  the  railings  exclaimed  in  admira- 
tion, but  the  distinguished  visitors  were  above  surprise. 
The  party  of  Cook's  tourists  who  had  just "  done  "  India 
were  full  of  explanations.  It  was  "  mere  jugglery,"  they 
said,  though  each  man  differed  in  his  theory.  One  was 
eloquent  on  hypnotic  suggestion,  and  though  the 
damaged  tourist,  his  hand  still  bound  up,  "  couldn't 
go  so  far  as  that,  sir,"  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  The 
injured  tourist  had  apparently  only  been  hypnotised 
a  little  more  effectually  than  the  rest  of  us.  The 


THE  ALTAR  OF  FIRE  45 

American  guests  favoured  "  acrobatic  training  from 
infancy,"  which  "  made  the  bones  just  like  jelly." 
Somebody  said  he  had  heard  it  was  "  done  with  oil," 
but  was  quite  vague  as  to  the  how,  and  all  the  more 
insistent  in  consequence.  And  so  we  explained  and 
argued  while  the  level  rays  of  sunshine  fell  on  the 
spotless  sword-rungs  of  the  ladder,  and  on  the  vest- 
ments of  the  Shinto  priests.  They  had  watched  and 
were  impassive.  The  climbing  of  the  ladder  was  not 
a  sacred  ceremony,  not  a  rite,  rather  an  amusement 
allowed  the  multitude,  as  the  Catholic  Church  offered 
jongleries  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

But  as  the  sun  fell  lower  and  lower  in  the  April 
sky,  a  hush  came  among  the  little  group  of  priests, 
and  growing,  travelled  slowly  over  the  courtyard. 
Even  the  damaged  tourist  stopped  his  explanations. 
The  great  red  altar  of  heat  that  lay  a  fallen  pillar  of 
fire  across  the  courtyard  was  glowing  now  white-hot 
with  life.  The  fanning  priests  at  each  corner  had 
moved  further  back  to  escape  the  scorch  of  the  flames, 
but  still  they  fanned.  In  waves  and  gusts  the  heat 
was  borne  across  the  court,  to  flicker,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  air,  steady  itself  and  then  drive  solidly  forward. 
The  Cook's  tourists  who  had  seized  upon  the  front 
row  of  seats,  twisted  uneasily  on  their  chairs,  un- 
willing to  give  up  their  "  best  places,"  unable  to  endure 
the  burning.  But  the  fierce  scorch  of  the  heat  came 
steadily  onwards,  and  before  it  the  tourists  ran, 
dragging  their  chairs  after  them. 

Still  the  fanning  priests  fanned  on,  chasing  the 
quivering  flames  on  the  red  altar  of  heat,  till  it  pulsed 
with  a  white-hot  breath  like  a  thing  alive. 

In  the  pale  April  sky  the  swift  sun  was  dropping 
golden  through  the  last  arcs  of  heaven  to  a  grey  band 


46  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

of  clouds  upon  the  horizon.     In  half  an  hour  it  would 
be  night. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd  beyond  the  barriers ; 
the  fanning  priests  beat  out  their  rhythm  slowly,  and 
with  the  shadows  the  gathering  sense  of  awe  deepened. 
Only  the  altar  of  heat  burned  brighter,  gathering  to 
itself  all  the  colour  from  the  world. 

Apart  from  the  crowd  the  High  Priest  stood,  the 
gold  on  his  vestment  gleaming,  and  he  watched  the 
sun.  The  peace  upon  his  face  was  like  an  unsaid 
prayer.  Did  his  soul  go  out  to  Amaterasu,  the  great 
Sun-Goddess  ? 

Swiftly  the  sun  dropped  through  the  bank  of  clouds 
leaving  them  golden,  showed  a  red  circle  on  the 
horizon,  and  passed  beneath.  The  faintest  flicker  of 
emotion  stirred  for  a  moment  the  grave  reverence  of 
the  old  man's  face.  Then  he  turned.  The  rhythmic 
beating  of  the  fanning  priests  died  into  silence.  The 
red  altar  stood  a  burning  fiery  furnace  in  the  courtyard, 
where  already  twilight  was.  He  spoke  no  word,  but 
the  religious  calm  of  a  perfect  trust  was  in  all  his 
being.  It  touched  the  straining  multitude  behind  the 
barriers,  even  the  tourists  in  their  chairs.  Breathless 
we  stayed  gripped  by  the  powers  of  an  awed  suspense, 
of  a  great  belief,  as  he  came  on.  There  was  no  hurry, 
no  tremor  in  his  movements,  on  through  the  hot 
scorched  air  he  came,  on,  over  the  threshold  of  strewn 
salt,  and  on,  over  the  altar  of  heat.  With  naked  feet 
he  trod  from  end  to  end  the  white-hot  pathway,  and 
the  burning  charcoal  snapped  beneath  his  tread.  With 
naked  feet  he  walked,  unscathed,  over  that  fiery 
furnace  ;  and  the  breath  of  a  passionate  prayer  passed 
like  a  sob  through  the  courtyard. 

Then  one  by  one  the  priests  in  their  embroidered 


THE  ALTAR  OF  FIRE  47 

vestments  stepped  from  the  threshold  of  salt  on  to  the 
fire.  From  end  to  end  of  the  altar  they  too  trod  that 
white-hot  pathway  slowly,  unhurt,  and  the  living 
charcoal  glowed  like  a  thousand  suns  in  the  twilight. 

Slowly  behind  their  distant  barriers  the  crowd  stirred 
irresolute.  An  old  man  whose  face  showed  rapt  in  the 
circle  of  firelight  approached  the  priests.  Hesitating 
he  was  led  up  to  the  altar,  over  the  white  salt  step,  and 
faltering,  he  too  trod  the  white-hot  pathway.  Then  a 
coolie  came  through  the  shadows,  he  too  stepped  up 
to  the  altar,  passed  over  the  threshold  of  salt  on  to  the 
living  charcoal. 

In  twos  and  threes  the  crowd  was  coming  now. 
Some  of  them  hesitated  on  the  white  salt  step,  some 
hurried  along  the  fiery  pathway.  A  few,  a  very  few, 
walked  away  as  though  their  feet  were  singed.  But 
all  came,  even  the  children.  The  big  children  who 
went  resolutely  alone,  the  little  children  whom  the 
priests  led. 

And  the  twilight  in  the  courtyard  deepened  into 
night.  The  broad  altar  of  heat  glowed  ruddy,  a  deep 
sun-red  as  its  life  pulsed  slower.  The  tourists  were 
all  quiet  on  their  chairs,  not  one  of  them  would 
venture,  though  the  little  children  went  before.  The 
Faith  was  not  in  them,  nor  the  power  of  that  great 
Belief.  But  those  behind  the  barriers,  this  Tokyo 
crowd  in  kimono  and  "bowler,"  they  believed.  With 
the  sounds  of  a  modern  city  humming  in  their  ears, 
fresh  from  the  western  education  ot  their  Board 
Schools,  they,  as  their  forefathers  for  two  thousand 
years,  passed  over  the  fire.  This  burning  symbol  of 
a  spiritual  purification  had  meaning  for  them.  They 
had  faith  and  were  not  afraid. 

Unto  such  is  the  Dominion  of  the  Earth  ;  unto  such 
is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 


XIV 
FORGOTTEN  GODS 

NEGLECTED  by  the  river  side  the  Buddhas  sit,  in  one 
long  silent  row.  The  rain  is  beating  on  their  unpro- 
tected heads,  and  down  their  granite  faces  little  rills 
of  water  trickle.  The  river  at  their  feet  runs  swift 
and  strong,  grey  among  the  boulders,  as  it  rushes  down 
to  Nikko.  And  they  sit  forsaken. 

The  moss  is  thick  upon  their  shoulders,  the  granite 
faces  are  all  scarred  and  battered,  blotched  with  pallid 
growths,  spotted  with  dusty  accumulations.  But  the 
Buddhas  smile.  Beneath  their  heavy-lidded  eyes  they 
smile,  a  slow,  still,  changeless  smile. 

On  the  green  bank  above  the  tumultuous  river  there 
is  no  shrine,  no  priest ;  the  forgotten  gods  sit  still,  in 
one  long  silent  row,  and  the  rain  beats  down  relent- 
less. Over  their  battered  heads  it  runs,  and  down 
their  moss-grown  shoulders ;  the  soiled  stone  laps  are 
full  of  it,  and  it  stands  in  ever  widening  pools  about 
the  lotus-leaves  of  each  pedestal.  For  in  Nikko  the 
rain,  tropical  in  vehemence,  is  persistent,  as  in  the 
Outer  Hebrides.  It  lies  to-day  in  slanting  lines, 
thick  as  willow-switches,  across  the  dull  grey  sky. 

I  could  not  well  be  wetter,  so  I  stop  to  look,  and  the 
whole  long  silent  row  of  Gods  Forgotten  smiles  gently 
back  at  me. 


FORGOTTEN  GODS  49 

Remindful  of  the  legend  which  calls  them  number- 
less, I  try  to  count.  Once,  twice,  several  times ;  but 
the  legend  is  right.  Each  time  my  total  varies.  Per- 
haps the  rain  confuses  me ;  the  willow-switches  lie  so 
thick  across  the  sky.  So  I  give  it  up  and  look  at 
the  long  desolate  row  of  the  numberless  Buddhas.  I 
wonder  if  they  envy  the  Buddha  who  fell  from  his 
pedestal  into  the  stream  and  was  carried  down  to 
Imaichi,  where  the  villagers,  finding  him  uninjured, 
reverently  set  him  up  with  his  face  towards  Nikko. 
Now  the  country-side  adores  him,  and  he  wears  a  large 
pink  bib. 

Across  the  madly  rushing  river,  churned  grey 
between  the  boulders,  the  Buddhas  smile.  ...  It  is 
a  smile  of  understanding.  Yes,  the  slow,  still  smile  of 
One  Who  Understands,  who  understands  All  Things, 
and  understanding,  is  content. 

And  who  should  understand,  and  understanding 
rest  content,  if  not  the  Eternal  Buddha?  Is  not  the 
Godhead  wise  ?  Does  it  not  see  the  meaning  and  the 
path  of  All  Things  ?  And  seeing,  were  it  not  then 
content  the  Devil  triumphs  ? 

"  God's  in  His  Heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world." 

If  God  be  in  His  Heaven,  and  God  be  God,  then 
must  the  Godhead  understanding  smile. 

Through  the  thick-falling  rain  the  long  still  row  of 
granite  Buddhas  smile  back  at  me.  I  have  thought  so 
long  upon  that  smile,  which  strikes  on  western  senses 
oddly,  almost  irreverently.  Do  we  ever  conceive  of  a 
smiling  God?  In  all  the  long  picture  galleries  of 
Europe  I  have  never  seen  a  Christ  who  smiled.  With 


50  THE  FAITH  OF  JAPAN 

sword-pierced  side  and  thorn-crowned  head  He  hangs 
before  us — suffering,  always  sad.  The  Man  of  Sor- 
rows; yet  He  redeemed  the  world;  He  saved  man- 
kind. For  pure  joy  a  soul  could  smile  at  such  a 
thought.  Yet  with  us  the  Redeemer  suffers  ;  He  never 
smiles. 

The  peasant  Sogoro,  from  his  cross  where  he  had 
watched  the  killing  of  his  children,  laughed  gaily  as 
he  bade  his  dying  wife  farewell ;  for  he  had  saved 
three  hundred  villages  from  unjust  taxation.  In  his 
intensest  suffering  a  Japanese  is  taught  to  smile.  He 
comes  to  tell  you  that  his  child  is  dying,  and  he  smiles. 
Perhaps  his  eyes  are  red,  but  he  smiles,  that  the  sight 
of  his  suffering  may  not  pain  another.  It  is  the  sub- 
limest  unselfishness  and  self-control.  Sogoro  dying 
on  the  cross  bade  his  crucified  wife  farewell,  laughing 
gaily,  and  no  Japanese  would  praise  or  wonder  at  the 
fact.  Sogoro  died  as  a  martyr.  Yes,  I  have  seen  a 
smile  on  the  faces  of  our  martyrs,  rarely,  it  is  true. 
Sodoma's  St.  Sebastian  smiles  ;  it  is  a  smile  of  the 
eyes.  He  sees  a  vision — the  Lamb  of  God  and  all  the 
choirs  of  the  angels.  But  Christ  never  smiles.  I 
cannot  think  of  one  picture,  one  conception  of  a 
smiling  God.  Sad,  weighed  down  with  the  sins  of 
mankind  ;  pitiful,  pleading ;  or  stern,  implacable,  the 
Just  Judge,  the  Ruler  of  the  Universe,  immovable 
Omnipotence,  scales  in  hand.  Can  either  Godhead 
smile  ? 

Buddha  suffered  much  and  endured  much,  but  still 
he  smiles.  He  too  is  merciful  and  full  of  pity.  He 
too  suffers  with  each  sin  man  sins.  Here  too  the 
Just  Judge  judgeth  the  World.  And  the  patient 
Buddha  suffers  till  the  wicked  are  redeemed.  There 
is  no  end  to  his  suffering  till  all  are  saved.  Only  when 


FORGOTTEN  GODS  51 

the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  cease  because  they 
are  the  good,  is  mortal  life  completed,  till  then  the 
complex  worlds  spin  on  and  on.  Yet  Buddha  smiles. 
For  man's  birthright  is  not  sin,  not  sorrow,  but  Joy. 
The  Godhead  smiles. 

This  long  silent  row  of  granite  gods,  fashioned  by 
the  hands  and  the  hearts  of  this  nation,  smile.  And 
all  the  bronze  and  granite  statues,  all  the  gilded 
images,  all  the  Buddhas  of  this  island  smile  too,  for 
the  people  who  made  them  and  conceived  them  believe 
in  Joy,  in  the  innate  as  in  the  ultimate  goodness  of 
man  ;  in  the  innate  as  in  the  ultimate  Joy  of  the  God- 
head. Verily  these  are  forgotten  Gods  in  western 
lands. 

Across  the  raging  mountain  river,  through  the  fast- 
falling  rain,  on  the  desolate  green  bank  the  numberless 
Buddhas  battered  and  forsaken  smile,  that  slow  still 
smile  of  One  Who  Understands,  who  understands  All 
Things,  and  understanding  is  content. 

Great  Buddha,  Dai  Nippon,  teach  us. 


LORD  FUJI 


"  Where  on  the  one  hand  is  the  province  of  Kai, 
And  on  the  other  the  province  of  Suruga, 
Right  in  the  midst  between  them 
Stands  out  the  high  peak  of  Fuji. 
The  very  clouds  of  Heaven  dread  to  approach  it ; 
Even  the  soaring  birds  reach  not  its  summit  in  their  flight. 
Its  burning  fire  is  quenched  by  the  snow  ; 
The  snow  that  falls  is  melted  by  the  fire. 
No  words  may  tell  of  it,  no  name  know  I  that  fits  it, 
But  a  wondrous  Deity  it  surely  is. 

***** 

Of  Yamato,  the  Land  of  Sunrise, 

It  is  the  Peace-Giver,  it  is  the  God,  it  is  the  Treasure. 

On  the  peak  of  Fuji,  in  the  land  of  Suruga, 

Never  weary  I  of  gazing." 

Japanese  poet,  eighth  century. 
("  Japanese  Literature,"  by  W.  G.  Aston.) 


PROLOGUE 

FROM  Pole  to  Pole  the  waters  of  the  wide  Pacific 
surge,  unending  and  alone.  Over  the  shifting  plain 
the  silence  of  the  ocean  broods.  Here  is  man  nothing ; 
for  the  endless  spaces  of  the  ocean,  the  self-sufficiency 
of  the  unresting  sea  remain  for  ever  outside  of  man, 
coldly  non-human.  A  river  or  a  hill  can  be  loved  into 
companionship,  but  the  sea  stays  always  strange. 

Without  ends  or  boundaries,  the  shifting  waters 
sweep  from  Pole  to  Pole,  solitary,  changeless.  Only 
the  curve  of  the  earth  itself,  or  the  weakness  of  man's 
eyesight  draws  imaginary  boundaries  on  the  horizon. 
And  the  waste  of  the  waters  lies  empty  and  still. 

Coldly  blue  is  the  sea  below,  and  the  sky  shutting 
down  is  blue  too  and  bare.  Two  empty  infinities 
which  meeting  set  bounds  to  each  other. 

And  within  there  is  nothing.  Only  space  ;  blue, 
bare  space. 

"In  the  beginning,"  says  the  Scripture,  "  the  waters 
below  were  separated  from  the  waters  above,"  and  out 
of  the  void  came  this  world  of  two  dimensions,  so 
cold,  blue  and  beautiful.  It  is  immensity — empty. 

Then  did  the  spirit  of  God  move  on  the  face  of  the 
waters,  move  slowly  and  pass. 

Into  the  empty  blue  came  a  white,  still  splendour. 


56  LORD  FUJI 

Softly  it  grew  in  the  dome  of  the  sky,  unreal  in  its 
beauty.  But  two  pale  curves  that  stayed  in  the 
heavens,  as  the  wandering  snowflake  seems  to  rest  on 
its  fall.  Midway  between  blue  and  blue  it  stayed, 
this  soft  white  splendour,  stayed  dreaming  a  pause. 

For  the  spirit  of  God  had  passed  ;  and  the  empty, 
blue  vastness  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  joy  and  elation. 
Earth's  fairest  presence  had  risen  high  to  the  heavens. 
And  it  lay,  two  curving  lines  of  exquisite  splendour, 
breathed  light  on  the  sky  ;  and  white  as  the  wing  of  a 
gull  in  the  gleam  of  the  sunshine,  all  shining  with 
whiteness. 

And  the  infinite  plane  of  the  waters  stretches  on  to 
the  Poles.  And  the  endless  space  of  the  sky  wraps 
the  water  around. 

But  the  empty,  blue  vastness  is  gone. 

It  is  blue  sea.  It  is  sky.  They  are  framing  a 
world,  for  Lord  Fuji  has  come. 


II 

THE  ASCENT 

GEOLOGISTS  state  that  Fuji  San  is  a  volcano,  a  young 
volcano,  12,365  feet  high.  Philologists  add  that  San 
is  derived  from  a  Chinese  term  meaning  mountain, 
and  is  not  the  familiar  Japanese  title  which  we  render 
by  Mr.,  Lord,  or  Master  ;  while  Fuji  is,  they  declare, 
a  word  of  Aino  origin.  And  then  they  all  fall  silent. 

These  are  the  facts  :  the  material,  provable  facts,  such 
as  western  text-books  publish.  But  to  Japan,  Fuji  San 
is  much  more,  and  most  of  this  is  not  text-book  fact. 

National  tradition  says  that  Fuji  arose  in  a  single 
night,  and  at  the  same  time  Lake  Biwa,  one 
hundred  and  forty  miles  away,  was  suddenly  formed. 
There  is  a  legend  that,  in  those  far-away  days  of 
mukaski,  mukashi — once  upon  a  time — the  Elixir  of 
Life  was  taken  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  it 
still  remains.  And  popular  belief  declares  that  all 
the  cinders  and  ashes  brought  down  by  the  pilgrims' 
feet  are  carried  each  night  back  to  the  summit  of 
Fuji. 

To  the  people,  Fuji  is  sacred;  holy  to  some  as  the 
abiding-place  of  the  Goddess  Ko-no-hana-saku-ya- 
hime,  She  who  makes  the  Blossoms  of  the  Trees  to 
Bloom,  but  sacred  to  all  for  its  majesty,  its  unutterable 
beauty.  The  peasants  of  the  country-side  call  Fuji 


58  LORD  FUJI 

Oyama,  Honourable  Mountain ;  and  to  the  people 
Fuji  San  is  Lord  and  Master.  Deep  in  their  hearts, 
and  unassailable  by  western  facts,  the  worship  ol  his 
beauty  and  his  power  lies  throbbing.  During  that 
brief  six  weeks  of  summer  when  Fuji's  wind-swept 
sides  alone  are  climbable,  the  pilgrims  come  in 
thousands,  in  ten  thousands.  They  dress  themselves 
in  white  from  head  to  foot.  They  carry  long  staves 
of  pure  white  wood  in  their  hands,  each  stamped  with 
the  temple  crest,  and  in  bands  and  companies  they 
climb  the  mountain.  And  always  the  leader  at  their 
head,  his  staff  crowned  with  a  tinkling  mass  of  bells, 
like  tiny  cymbals,  chants  the  hymn  of  Fuji.  From 
base  to  summit,  as  the  white-clad  pilgrims  climb,  the 
tinkling  cymbals  clash,  and  the  voice  of  the  leader 
rises  loud  at  each  refrain  : 

"  We  are  going,  we  are  going  to  the  top." 

Above  the  clash  of  the  bells  the  chorus  echoes  : 

"  To  the  top,  to  the  top,  to  the  top." 

"  We  are  going,"  chants  the  leader,  and  the  tiny 
cymbals  clash — "We  are  going,  we  are  going  to  the 
top." 

The  western  facts  of  modern  text-books  cannot 
touch  the  meaning  of  this  mountain ;  the  love  of  its 
long  curving  line  which  permeates  the  nation's  art, 
the  adoration  of  its  beauty,  and  the  reverence  of  its 
power. 

Already  in  a  time  which  to  us  upstart  western  nations 
is  almost  mukashi,  mukashi,  in  the  days  before  King 
Alfred  burnt  the  cakes,  a  Japanese  poet  had  caught  and 
expressed  the  feeling  of  the  nation  for  its  mountain  : 
for  he  wrote  of  Fujiyama  as 

"  A  treasure  given  to  mortal  man 
The  God  Protector  watching  o'er  Japan." 


THE  ASCENT  59 

And  to-day  the  God  Protector  watches  still,  and  yearly 
the  people  come,  in  the  white  garb  of  pilgrims, 
chanting  to  his  shrine. 

For  six  short  summer  weeks  they  come.  Then  the 
winds  rush  down,  the  snow  falls,  the  tempests  rage,  and 
Lord  Fuji  lives  alone.  No  human  being  has  yet  stayed 
a  winter  on  his  summit,  and  even  in  the  summer  weeks 
the  winds  will  blow  the  lava  blocks  from  the  walls  of 
the  rest-houses,  and  sometimes  the  pilgrim  from  the 
path.  For  Fuji  stands  alone,  not  one  peak  among  a 
range,  but  utterly  alone.  Rising  straight  out  of  the  sea 
on  one  side,  and  from  the  great  Tokyo  plain  on  the 
other,  his  twelve  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  feet,  in  two  long  curving  lines  of  exquisite  grace, 
rise  up  and  up  into  the  blue,  and  not  one  inch  of  one 
foot  is  hidden  or  lost ;  it  is  all  there,  visible  as  a  tower 
built  on  a  treeless  plain.  It  dominates  the  landscape. 
It  can  be  seen  from  thirteen  provinces  ;  and  from  a 
hundred  miles  at  sea  the  pale  white  peak  of  Fuji  floats 
above  the  blue. 

It  was  a  day  in  the  beginning  of  August,  in  the  very 
middle  of  those  hot  three  weeks  which  are  the  great 
festival  of  Fuji  San,  in  the  simmering  dawn  of  a 
summer's  day  that  we  left  Tokyo  for  Subashiri.  As 
the  train  approached  Gotemba  the  whole  crowded 
carriageful  of  Japanese  looked  eagerly  for  Fuji.  The 
train  was  climbing  slowly  by  a  mountain  stream,  and  we 
were  all  looking,  looking,  beyond  the  dark  green  pine- 
trees  of  the  river's  bank.  Suddenly,  for  one  dazzling 
moment,  the  deep  blue  cone  of  Fuji  lay  pillowed  on  a 
bank  of  clouds  in  the  middle  of  the  clear  blue  sky. 
Then,  swiftly,  the  clouds  rolled  up  a/id  up.  Puji  San 
was  gone.  The  whole  carriageful  gave  vent  to  those 


60  LORD  FUJI 

long  strangled  Jis  of  admiration  and  delight,  and  with 
a  murmured  "Fuji  San  seeing  have"  sank  back  on 
their  heels  on  the  cushions. 

Gotemba  is  the  nearest  railway  station  to  Fujiyama, 
and  the  highest.  It  lies  a  thousand  feet  up.  Being 
the  most  accessible,  it  is  the  most  usual  starting- 
point  for  the  climb,  but  it  is  not  the  most  picturesque. 
A  wonderful  line  of  trams  now  connects  Gotemba  with 
Subashiri,  and  even  with  Yoshida,  a  place  half  round 
the  base  of  the  mountain.  We  were  to  start  from 
Subashiri  and  come  down  to  Yoshida,  and  return  by 
the  lakes.  So  from  the  station  we  walked  up  the 
straggling,  badly  kept  street  of  Gotemba,  where  every 
house  is  a  hotel  and  every  hotel  hangs  out  many  adver- 
tisements in  the  shape  of  cotton  streamers  twelve 
feet  long  and  six  inches  wide,  which  are  attached  by 
rings  to  bamboo  poles.  So  through  groves  of  white 
and  blue  and  brown  banners  all  adorned  with 
beautiful  Chinese  symbols  we  walked  to  the  tramway. 

A  dive  through  a  wooden  archway  between  two 
tea-houses,  where  a  ticket-hole  and  a  wooden  barrier 
composed  the  station,  and  we  were  there.  The 
trams  stood  under  the  archway  ;  the  lines  were  lost  in 
the  black  cindery  mud — and  they  were  both  Japanese 
— the  tram-lines,  just  rows  of  knitting-needles  and 
laid  very  close  together,  the  trams  diminished  by 
the  national  taste  for  the  national  needs  to  a  little 
oblong  box  like  a  stunted  bathing-machine.  Our  tram 
stood  from  ground  to  roof  perhaps  some  five  feet  high. 
By  taking  off  our  hats  we  could  just  manage  to  sit 
down,  and  by  judiciously  fitting  our  knees  into  one 
another  like  elaborate  dovetailing  we  got  in  width-ways, 
and  we  only  got  in  at  all  by  entering  the  door  side- 
ways. Fat  people  do  not  travel  in  Japanese  trams — 


THE  ASCENT  61 

not  unless  they  have  a  ladder  and  sit  on  the  roof.  The 
only  way  to  insinuate  luggage  is  to  coax  it  through 
the  window-frames,  which,  as  there  were  only  two 
to  a  side,  were  almost  once  and  a  half  times  the  width 
of  the  door,  not  more.  In  the  Fuji  tramways  pil- 
grims' hats  are  not  admitted.  This  is  no  prohibition. 
It  is  an  impossibility,  for  the  diameter  of  the  pilgrim 
hat,  which  is  twice  as  large  as  the  largest  halo,  is 
equal  in  size  to  the  width  of  the  entire  tram.  So 
the  pilgrims  hang  their  huge  circles  of  straw  hats, 
like  scooped-out  orange  halves,  outside ;  and  our  tram 
before  it  started  became  a  new  kind  of  armoured  train. 

In  this  dumpy  bathing-box  we  had  room  for  four 
a  side.  We  took  five  and  thought  it  empty  ;  smiled 
at  six ;  submitted  to  seven ;  where  an  eighth  would 
have  disposed  himself  I  do  not  know,  he  would 
certainly  have  got  in,  but  the  puzzle  would  have 
been  to  have  found  a  vacant  cubic  foot  of  space  for 
his  occupation.  Trams  are  never  full  in  Japan. 
There  is  always  room  for  more,  if  the  more  arrive. 
In  this  case  the  more  got  in  at  a  small  junction 
outside  the  back  lanes  of  Gotemba.  They  got  in, 
three  of  them,  and  with  huge  bundles  too.  Then 
the  conductor  looked  round  inquiringly  and  smiled, 
whereupon  two  polite  pilgrims  of  lighter  build  than 
the  newcomers  gave  up  their  seats  and  wedged  them- 
selves into  the  window-frames,  while  the  bundles  were 
deposited  on  the  continuous  strata  of  passenger.  What 
happened  to  the  third  I  do  not  know.  He  got  in. 

Then  we  started,  really  started,  for  there  was  no 
other  halting-place,  no  village  or  station  between  here 
and  Subashiri.  Nothing  but  a  broad,  bare  sweep  of 
upward-tending  common,  where  multitudes  of  wild 
flowers  grew  out  of  the  cindery  soil. 


62  LORD  FUJI 

As  we  went  on,  the  faintly  curving  common,  which 
always  sloped  round  and  up,  grew  wilder  and  wilder. 
There  were  fewer  flowers  on  the  black  soil.  Sometimes 
the  cinders  lay  all  bare  in  large  dull  patches  against  the 
coarse  grass.  We  were  on  the  broad  swelling  slope  of 
Fuji,  on  the  edge  of  the  first  ripple  before  it  dies  away 
into  the  smooth  water  of  the  plain  below.  And  we  were 
crawling  slowly  from  the  first  to  the  second  ripple  as  a  fly 
crawls  round  the  curve  of  an  orange.  Fuji  himself 
was  invisible.  For  all  we  could  see  he  did  not  exist. 
Spread  out  before  our  eyes  was  only  the  endless  swell- 
ing line  of  the  green  common,  always  curving  round 
and  up.  From  time  to  time  our  driver  blew  a  melan- 
choly thin  note  from  a  tiny  copper  horn  shaped  like  a 
thickened  comma  and  ornamented  with  a  worked  band 
of  brass,  a  pathetic  far-off  note  unknown  to  western 
scales. 

Our  tram-line  was  laid  among  the  smple  cinders  of 
Fuji's  burnt-out  fires,  and  sometimes  the  curves  were 
very  sharp.  Then  the  conductor,  balanced  on  the  step 
and  grasping  the  window-frame  with  both  hands, 
jerked  the  tram  towards  him  to  keep  it  on  the  lines ; 
and  we  rounded  the  curves  in  triumph.  The  compact 
mass  of  passenger  which  filled  the  tram  interior  looked 
on  unperturbed,  while  those  in  the  window-frames 
kindly  adjusted  their  weight  to  assist  the  conductor. 
And  the  melancholy  thin  note  of  the  copper  horn 
travelled  over  the  long  slope  of  the  upward-tending 
common  as  we  crawled  slowly  on. 

In  the  midst  of  a  perfect  stocking-heel  of  knitting- 
needles,  which  all  looked  as  though  they  were  about  to 
begin  violently  knitting  at  once,  the  tram  stopped,  and 
the  compact  mass  of  passenger  disintegrated  itself 
slowly.  Having  been  the  first  to  enter  we  were  the 


THE  ASCENT  63 

last  to  detach  ourselves  from  the  general  lump,  and 
when  we  did  recover  a  separate  entity  the  knitting- 
needles  lay  gleaming  in  the  cindery  mud — and  there 
was  nothing  else  We  stumbled  on  over  them  for 
some  time,  until  a  ticket-hole  in  a  sentry-box  restored 
our  belief  that  it  was  a  stopping-place  and  not  an 
accident.  So  we  stood  still  and  shouted  for  our  tea- 
house boy  by  name.  He  came  running,  in  long,  tight- 
fitting,  blue  trousers  like  thick  cotton  hose  and  a  blue 
tunic  ;  and  he  was  a  girl,  a  pretty  bright-coloured  girl 
with  daintily  coiffured  hair  ;  and  we  all  set  off  for  the 
tea-house. 

Subashiri  is  another  straggling  ill-kept  street,  all 
tea-houses  and  long  cotton  banners  tied  to  bamboo 
poles,  and  our  tea-house  was  the  last  of  them  all.  It 
lay  on  the  very  edge  of  Fuji,  and  when  we  left  it, 
after  all  our  preparations  had  been  completed,  our 
lunch  eaten,  our  guide  engaged,  we  stepped  straight 
on  to  the  endless  curve  of  upward-tending  common. 

I  should  have  said  our  horses  stepped,  for  the  first 
stage  of  Fuji  San  is  climbable  on  horses,  pack-horses 
of  a  unique  Japanese  breed,  which  bite.  They  are 
harnessed  with  elaborate  trappings  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
saddled  with  huge  wooden  saddles,  rising  like  the 
prow  of  a  ship  behind,  and  sloping  so  steeply  that 
the  middle  is  one  long  knife-blade  ridge,  and  only 
a  tight  hold  of  the  stirrups  prevents  the  rider  from 
falling.  All  ride  straddle-legged.  I  do  not  recom- 
mend Japanese  pack-horses  for  pleasure,  comfort,  or 
security. 

We  plodded  along  over  the  bare  common  with  its 
eternal  long  sweep  upwards,  like  the  swell  of  a  great 
Atlantic  roller,  and  the  freshness  and  the  coldness 
seemed  to  lift  us  out  of  Japan  and  carry  us  miles  and 


64  LORD  FUJI 

miles  north,  to  the  chill  summer  of  a  northern  land. 
The  path  which  cut  winding  across  the  long  up-sweep 
of  the  green  common  was  black  as  ink,  and  shining 
with  the  wet  of  mountain  clouds.  Fuji  was  invisible, 
but  as  the  deep  rumble  of  the  thunder,  deadened 
behind  the  thick  white  clouds  which  bounded  path  and 
common,  rolled  slowly  out  of  hearing  it  was  as  if  Great 
Fuji  spoke.  Behind  the  mist  the  presence  of  the 
"  honourable  mountain  "  could  be  surely  felt.  Already 
the  world  seemed  sunk  away  and  the  pilgrimage 
begun. 

Over  the  green  common  the  pack-horses  plodded. 
Our  guide  and  the  little  girl  groom,  in  her  thick  blue 
hose  and  dark  blue  tunic,  were  far  behind  talking  in 
peace.  The  big  drops  of  rain  which  the  thunder 
brought  had  ceased  to  fall,  and  the  freshness  and  the 
chill  coming  after  the  tropical  heat  of  the  plain  stung 
strength  to  life  again.  Even  the  pack-horses  grew 
less  sulky,  and  urging  made  them  shuffle  into  some- 
thing near  a  trot.  But  this  outbreak  of  energy,  which 
lasted  perhaps  eighty  yards,  was  more  than  enough  for 
comfort,  though  it  added  to  experience,  for  like  the 
knights  of  old  who  "  clove "  their  enemies  in  two, 
we  too  "clove,"  but  in  another  direction.  It  was 
painful.  So  the  horses  sank  back  into  their  bad- 
tempered  pace,  and  the  wide  common  swept  onwards 
and  upwards. 

After  awhile  the  monotony  of  the  black  path  crossing 
the  green  common  was  varied  by  stunted  bushes  which, 
gradually  growing  bigger  and  bigger,  actually  enclosed 
the  cinder-track  as  English  hedges  an  English  lane. 
But  the  change  was  brief  and  the  sloping  green  world 
with  the  long  black  line  of  path  winding  across  it  came 
back  again. 


THE  ASCENT  65 

The  pack-horses  plodded  bad-temperedly  on,  and 
the  structure  of  that  saddle  seemed  to  be  petrifying  in 
my  frame.  A  blot  in  the  path  which  had  lain  for  so 
long  on  the  edge  of  the  common  came  gradually  nearer 
until  it  widened  into  a  deep  oblong  pit  filled  with  the 
rakings  of  a  thousand  fires.  Through  this  we  ploughed 
our  way,  and  the  loose  cinders  came  over  the  feet  of 
the  horses.  With  a  good  deal  of  exertion  we  climbed 
out  again,  then  a  few  yards,  a  sharp  turn,  and  we 
passed  an  empty  row  of  sheds,  for  we  had  reached  the 
Mma  gaeshi — "Horse-turn-back"  station.  My  horse 
evidently  understood  the  Chinese  characters  of  the 
tea-house  sign,  for  no  sooner  did  he  see  them  than  he 
promptly  walked  into  one  of  the  sheds,  with  me  cling- 
ing affectionately  to  his  neck  to  avoid  the  shock  of  the 
roof  on  my  chest.  But  promptly  as  he  walked  in,  the 
little  girl  groom  and  the  boy  guide  were  prompter; 
with  a  rush  they  were  at  his  head,  hauling  him  out 
again.  He  objected  strongly,  snarling  like  an  ill-used 
dog,  and  so  did  I,  but  we  were  backed  out  of  the  shed 
at  last. 

We  did  not  "  horse-turn-back,"  we  were  going  to 
take  our  steeds  on  one  more  station.  The  stations  on 
Fuji,  which  are  nothing  but  the  native  tea-house, 
rougher,  ruder,  and  less  scrupulously  clean,  are  mostly 
built  right  across  the  actual  path  itself.  You  go  in  at 
one  side  and  out  at  the  other. 

Up  to  the  very  threshold  of  the  tea-house  the  sweep 
of  the  wet  green  common  rolled,  like  a  gigantic, 
motionless  wave  that  never  breaks.  It  was  a  bare 
wild  world  bounded  only  by  the  pale  walls  of  the 
distant  clouds.  But  on  the  other  side  the  path  plunged 
steeply  into  a  thick  interminable  wood,  where  the 
great  trees  dripped  slowly,  with  the  heavy  persistency 


66  LORD  FUJI 

of  Fate,  and  the  dark  trunks  glistened  uncertainly  with 
wet.  The  little  girl  groom  and  the  boy  guide  came  and 
led  the  horses  carefully,  for  the  path  was  very  steep, 
and  the  thick  roots  of  the  trees  stretched  like  cords 
above  the  cinders. 

This  stage  was  short.  At  the  next  tea-house,  which 
lay  confined  as  a  lake  between  the  walls  of  the  moun- 
tain, we  said  "good-bye"  to  the  ill-tempered  horses 
and  to  the  little  girl  groom.  The  boy  was  to  take  us 
to  the  top  and  down  to  Yoshida.  Then  the  wood, 
which  the  tea-house  had  interrupted  no  more  than  a 
buoy  the  ocean,  stretched  on.  The  great  trees  dripped 
coldly,  with  that  chill  feel  of  damp  green  things  that 
makes  the  springtime  of  the  north  :  coldly  fresh  as 
though  the  running  sappy  life  were  chill  as  mountain 
water,  as  though  the  growing  trees  were  enwrapped  in 
invisible  ice  and  the  very  air  made  of  impalpable  snow. 

In  the  midst  of  the  wood  stood  a  little  desolate 
shrine,  its  floor  was  nothing  but  the  black  stamped 
earth,  its  roof  of  roughest  thatch  kept  down  with  lava- 
stones,  and  only  the  tiny  altar  had  walls  at  all.  Behind 
a  sort  of  wooden  bar  the  gods  sat  dim,  and  a  mournful 
old  priest  was  their  only  attendant. 

Straight  towards  the  altar  led  the  mountain  path. 
This  was  the  gateway  of  Lord  Fuji.  Each  path  that 
climbs  the  "honourable  mountain"  leads  through  a 
temple  to  the  temple  on  the  top.  At  the  first  shrine 
the  pilgrim  buys  his  long  white  staff,  stamped  with  the 
temple  crest,  which  he  carries  with  him  upwards  to  the 
summit. 

We  bought  our  staves.  And  the  old  man,  thrust- 
ing a  thin  bar  of  iron  like  a  stick  of  sealing-wax 
into  the  charcoal  fire,  burnt  the  crest  of  Subashiri's 
shrine  into  the  clean  white  wood,  and  with  a  courteous 


THE  ASCENT  67 

gesture  he  said  the  prayer  which  we,  unknowing,  had 
left  unsaid.  Lord  Fuji  is  neither  fierce  nor  exclusive, 
all  the  world  may  come  as  pilgrims  through  his  gate- 
ways. From  the  great  Sun-Goddess  the  Mikado 
sprang,  and  the  people  of  Japan  are  all  kin  to  the 
Shinto  gods,  but  the  Shinto  gods  themselves  welcomed 
the  Lord  Buddha  when  he  came.  Side  by  side  with 
the  older  gods  Buddha's  temples  stand  to-day,  and 
Lord  Buddha,  too,  once  said,  "  All  men  are  one  "  ;  and 
again,  "  All  living  things  are  brothers  to  mankind  "  ;  for 
Buddha,  like  the  modern  scientists,  declared  the  world, 
all  worlds,  and  all  that  in  them  is,  one,  in  substance 
one. 

Three  steps  from  the  temple  and  the  trees  of  the 
wood  shut  over  it  as  waters  over  a  stone.  It  was 
lost.  Lord  Fuji  is  greater  than  his  temples.  With 
the  help  of  our  staves  we  climbed  on  up  the  steep 
cinder-path,  till  the  great  green  trees,  dripping  slowly, 
dwindled,  drew  back,  were  ended. 

On  the  very  edge  of  the  wood  was  a  tea-house, 
the  Ichi-go,  No.  i  station,  a  roughly  built  wooden- 
walled  tea-house,  on  the  edge  of  whose  matting,  with 
our  feet  on  the  path,  we  sat  and  drank  tea,  innumer- 
able egg-bowls  of  hot  green  tea.  While  we  were 
sitting  here  a  whole  party  of  pilgrims,  in  their  white 
hose  trousers,  their  white  tunics  tucked  into  their  white 
obi,  and  their  wash-basin-big  straw  hats,  came  down 
the  path.  They  turned  into  the  tea-house,  and  one  old 
man,  dropping  on  to  the  matting,  rolled  himself  into  a 
corner  and  was  covered  with  futon.  He  had  caught 
cold  on  the  top,  and  was  perfectly  exhausted  with  pain 
and  fatigue.  But  as  he  lay  in  the  corner,  clutching 
faz  futon  to  him  as  though  to  press  a  concrete  warmth 
inio  his  numbed  bones,  there  was  in  his  eyes  a  look 


68  LORD  FUJI 

of  dwelling  content  that  not  all  the  pain  nor  all  the 
fatigue  could  overcome.  He  had  climbed  from  the 
threshold  to  the  sanctuary  of  Fuji ;  had  knelt  by  the 
cloud-swept  altar  ;  felt  the  might  of  the  God  in  the 
winds  ot  his  summit,  in  the  still  depths  of  his  crater  ; 
caught  up  with  Lord  Fuji  on  high,  he  had  looked 
down  upon  earth.  What  now  was  pain  or  fatigue  ? 

The  path  from  the  tea-house  struck  out  abruptly 
across  the  mountain,  and  we  soon  stood  above  the 
trees,  stood  on  the  bare  cinder-slope  that  is  Fuji.  It 
was  very  much  like  walking  up  an  ash-heap  or  a 
ballast-mound,  and  about  as  beautiful.  Below  us 
everything  was  hidden  in  a  shifting  mist ;  above, 
twenty  feet  of  cinder-slope  ended  in  a  white  wall.  It 
was  like  climbing  a  black  rope  hung  between  two 
clouds. 

After  the  ballast-heap  came  a  lava-bed,  where  a 
molten  river  of  lava  had  dried  itself  into  high  rocks 
and  deep  cracks,  as  the  ice  of  a  glacier.  We  crossed 
it  obliquely,  and  in  the  twilight  saw  neither  beginning 
nor  end,  neither  from  where  it  came  nor  to  where  it 
went ;  but  its  pinnacles  and  crevasses,  its  tumbled 
waves  and  jagged,  piled-up  ridges,  lay  lustreless  and 
dark,  as  though  of  coal-black  ice. 

Once  across  this  lava-glacier,  and  out  of  the  dip 
formed  by  its  bed,  we  stood  on  a  sort  of  self-contained 
ash-heap,  and  looked  down  that  long  slope  of  Fuji 
which  already  lay  below  us. 

Dimly  through  the  faint  floating  veil  of  mist  we 
could  see  all  the  green  earth  bare  and  smooth,  with  a 
darker  line  of  hills  as  a  child's  bank  of  mud  curving 
round  the  black  surface  of  the  lakes.  We  were  so 
high  up,  the  lakes  so  far  away,  and  the  whole  air  so 


THE  ASCENT  69 

heavy  with  moisture  that  they  looked  in  the  misty 
light  like  polished  slabs  of  black  rock  dropped  into 
the  green  earth  as  one  might  sink  stepping-stones  into 
a  lawn.  As  we  watched  the  light  seemed  to  thicken, 
the  white  mists  spread  through  it  as  motes  in  a  sun- 
beam, gathered  themselves  together.  Swiftly  they 
hid  the  black  lakes  ;  and  boiling  within  the  dark  curve 
of  the  hills  in  billows  of  smoke,  boiled  over  the  mud- 
bank  of  hills,  and  blotting  them  out  ;  submerged  the 
green  earth,  and  flowing  rapidly  upwards  hid  all  the 
long  slope  of  Fuji  beneath  a  shoreless  sea  of  fog. 

Again  we  stood  on  a  steep  cinder-heap  on  the  black 
rope  which  hung  from  void  to  void — alone. 

And  impenetrable  Fuji  remained.  We  simply 
climbed  a  cinder-path  which  ran  from  end  to  end  of  a 
never-ending,  ever-retreating  circle  of  cloud.  And 
still  within  this  grey-white  circle  we  reached  the  Ni-go, 
or  No.  2  station.  Here  we  were  to  stop  the  night, 
because  No.  2  is  larger  and  more  comfortable  than 
No.  4,  and  No.  8  was  too  far  away. 

No.  2  lay  on  the  side  of  the  path,  its  face  looking 
over  the  precipice  and  its  three  sides  well  within  a 
scooped-out  hole  in  the  cinder-heap.  It  was  nothing 
but  an  ordinary  Japanese  room,  only  its  walls  were 
of  solid  wood,  protected  outside  by  cut  blocks  of  lava, 
and  inside  with  a  lining  of  folded  futon  on  shelves. 
Far  away  in  the  back  of  the  room  the  charcoal  fire 
was  sunk  in  a  sort  of  earth  well,  so  that  you  could  sit 
on  the  matting  with  your  legs  in  the  hole,  absorb 
warmth,  or  do  your  cooking.  Otherwise  the  tea-house 
was  bare  matted  space  on  which  each  comer  staked 
out  a  claim  for  himself  with  his  luggage. 

Having  chosen  a  good  site  in  a  corner  less  draughty 


70  LORD  FUJI 

than  the  rest  of  the  enclosure,  we  proceeded  to  unpack 
and  wash.  Just  outside  the  middle  of  the  open  wall 
of  the  house,  and  full  on  the  pathway  of  Fuji,  stood  a 
large  waterbutt.  Having  been  directed  by  the  family — 
an  amiable  man,  an  indifferent  wife,  and  an  inquisitive 
boy — to  wash  outside,  I  stepped  on  to  the  pathway. 
The  tub  was  half  full  of  water  and  looked  very  like 
the  ordinary  bath-tub  of  Japan.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  seen  a  bath  out  of  doors,  though  they  figure  so 
largely  in  travellers'  tales  ;  still  there  was  nothing  else, 
so  boldly  I  plunged  the  top  half  of  myself  into  the 
water. 

A  simultaneous  scream  from  the  man,  the  wife 
and  the  boy,  brought  me  up  dripping  and  bewildered. 

What  had  I  done  ? 

Not  sinned  against  their  moral  code,  surely.  No- 
worse.  Washed  in  the  drinking-water ! 

Luckily  there  was  more,  enough  for  endless  tea  that 
night,  and  to-morrow  fresh  water  could  be  fetched. 
But  my  wash  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  Of  course  what 
I  ought  to  have  done  was  to  unearth  a  brass  pan 
tucked  away  behind  the  tub,  take  down  a  bamboo 
dipper  from  a  lava-block,  dip  out  water  from  the  tub 
into  the  pan  and  wash  in  that.  Quite  simple,  naturally, 
when  it  was  all  explained  and  the  pan  and  the  dipper 
produced,  but  all  problems  always  are  simple  after  the 
explanation. 

The  amiable  man  remained  amiable  even  after  this 
catastrophe,  and  the  indifferent  wife  had  not  been 
shaken  from  her  indifference  save  for  the  space  of  one 
brief  scream,  while  the  small  boy,  at  such  an  exhibition  of 
curious  manners  on  the  part  of  the  Ijin  San,  grew 
more  inquisitive  than  ever,  and  we  fried  ham,  ate  tinned 
tongue,  cut  slices  of  bread,  and  drank  foreign  wine 


THE  ASCENT  71 

under  a  close  and  exhaustive  series  of  comments  which 
were  questions. 

It  grew  dark  rapidly  as  we  ate.  And  as  relays  of 
pilgrims  came  in  out  of  the  night  to  fling  themselves 
down  on  the  matting,  swallow  cupfuls  of  hot  tea  and 
exchange  long  compliments  with  the  man,  the  wife, 
and  the  guide,  and  disappear  again  into  the  night, 
we  congratulated  ourselves.  No.  4  must  have  been 
very  full.  At  eight  o'clock,  when  the  amado  were 
drawn  and  the  tea-house  became  a  compact  box, 
No.  2  had  no  guests  but  the  Ijin  San. 

It  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  The  man  put  out  the 
one  smoking  lamp  by  the  fire-pit  which  had  cast  such 
lurid  yellow  lights  on  the  white  clothes  of  the  pilgrims 
as  they  sat  and  drank,  and  such  murky,  gigantic 
shadows  on  the  rest  of  the  room  ;  the  boy  went  to  bed 
in  a  corner,  and  we  rolled  ourselves  up  in  our  carefully 
Keatinged/^/07z  and  tried  to  sleep. 

It  was  cold.  There  were  fleas.  And  Fuji  sent  us 
down  a  draught  which  simply  whistled  through  the 
wooden  walls,  the  folded  futon  and  the  lava-blocks. 
And  the  sense  of  the  unusual,  of  the  rest-house,  the 
cinder-path  and  of  Fuji,  crept  into  our  slumbers, 
holding  back  sleep. 

When  we  awoke  it  was  already  five  o'clock  and 
the  amado  were  open.  The  boy,  careering  over  the 
matting,  was  detailing  how  the  Ijin  San  slept. 

We  shook  ourselves  out  of  our  futon  and  went 
outside  to  wash — not  in  the  waterbutt. 

Already,  when  we  stepped  upon  the  cinder-path,  the 
unseen  sun  had  touched  the  white  clouds  lying  like 
islands  in  the  blue  beneath.  And  as  we  watched  they 
coloured  blushing,  till  in  blood-red  pools  they  studded 


72  LORD  FUJI 

thick  the  air  below.  They  lay  away  out  over  the 
land,  moving  slowly  through  the  vapoury  mist.  It  was 
as  if  the  air  was  half  precipitated,  the  atmosphere  made 
visible.  We  looked  down  on  to  the  world  below  and 
saw  it  as  one  sees  white  stones  at  the  bottom  of 
deep  water. 

The  hidden  sun  was  rising  swiftly,  and  as  he  rose 
the  blood-red  pools  faded  out ;  the  vapoury  white  air 
grew  thinner,  seemed  slowly  drying,  until  clear  and 
invisible,  we  looked  through  it  and  saw  the  green 
earth  stretching  away  and  away  to  the  level  line  of 
the  horizon ;  while  midway  the  little  lakes  lay  sepia- 
black  upon  the  green,  curving  so  comfortably  into  the 
tiny  crescent  of  the  hills  all  dark  with  purple  shadows. 
A  fresh-washed  world  lying  green  and  flat  at  the 
bottom  of  7,000  feet  of  atmosphere. 

It  was  cold,  the  water  in  the  brass  pan  colder, 
and  tingling  with  sudden  chill  we  ran  rapidly  up  the 
path  past  the  scooped-out  hollow  where  the  rest-house 
hid — and  stood  transfixed. 

Above  us,  touching  us,  and  black  against  a  sky  all 
blue  and  liquid  as  the  living  sea,  was  Fuji  San. 

His  clear-cut  lines  rose  up  quickly,  and  the  mountain, 
whose  slope  our  hands  were  holding,  seemed  to  draw 
back  its  summit  that  our  eyes  might  see  it,  so  close  it 
lay,  so  steep  above.  Round  as  a  tower  it  rose  in  curves 
of  grace,  a  black  lighthouse  springing  towards  the  sky, 
delicate  as  Giotto's  lily  tower :  slender  in  its  grace  and 
fragile.  This  was  no  rude  Colossus,  mighty  with  brute 
strength,  but  a  god,  great  in  grace,  and  strong,  because 
divine. 

Upwards  the  soaring  lines  rose  up,  coal-black,  and 
the  growing  light  caught  faintly  at  a  wine-red  patch 


THE  ASCENT  73 

where  the  sullen  fires  were  sleeping,  caught  and  turned 
it  redder ;  redly  it  glowed,  smouldering  into  life,  the 
living  life  of  Fujiyama. 

Beneath  the  rounded  dip  of  the  summit  were  two 
tiny  cracks,  and  the  sky  which  lay  so  blue  within  the 
crescent  curve  seemed  straining  through.  Here  was 
neither  tree  nor  rock,  neither  snow  nor  glacier,  nothing 
to  hide  the  form  and  substance  of  the  mountain.  Quite 
smoothly  it  rose,  deep  black,  one  great  dead  cinder. 

It  was  perfectly  fine  when  at  last  towards  six  o'clock 
we  started  to  climb ;  and  the  pale  blue  sky  lay  flat 
behind  Fuji,  as  the  background  in  a  picture. 

Our  path  was  narrow,  just  a  foot-wide  track  beaten 
firm  in  the  steep  cinder-slope.  And  we  climbed,  till 
at  No.  4  we  stopped  to  rest. 

The  stations  on  Fuji  are  all  much  alike.  A  matted 
room  lined  with  futon,  and  always  a  square  well  at  the 
back  with  a  charcoal  fire  and  an  ever-boiling  kettle. 
As  you  go  up  the  wooden  walls  are  hidden  outside 
beneath  huge  blocks  of  cut  lava,  hidden  deeper  and 
deeper,  while  the  roofs  are  fastened  down  with  lava- 
stones.  Yet  every  winter  Fuji  blows  down  the  built- 
up  walls,  tears  off  the  roofs,  and  sends  the  big  blocks 
hurtling  down  the  slope.  Even  in  summer  the  roof 
and  walls  lose  portions  of  themselves,  which,  rolling, 
rolling,  rolling,  roll  for  ever  downwards.  Some  of  the 
stations  are  smaller,  some  larger,  some  cleaner,  this  is 
the  only  difference.  In  each  you  sit  down  on  the 
matting  to  rest,  and  the  crouching  man  over  the  fire 
brings  you  hot  tea,  and  rice-paste  cakes,  while  a  far- 
away figure  dimly  seen  through  the  smoke  of  the 
charcoal  fire  asks  your  guide  where  you  come  from, 
where  you  are  going  to,  when  you  started,  and  what 


74  LORD  FUJI 

time  you  will  be  back.  And  your  guide  replies,  with 
endless  details  as  to  your  behaviour  if  you  are  an  Ijin 
San,  and  the  amount  you  have  already  expended  on 
tea  and  tips. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  and  one  with  the  added 
charm  of  uncertainty. 

Floating  in  the  blue  above  and  below  us  were  clouds, 
large  white  clouds  which  would  swoop  down  on  the 
land,  suddenly,  and  hide  it  as  under  a  napkin.  Then 
the  black  cone  of  Fuji,  a  cone  with  its  top  bitten  out 
in  two  little  bites,  would  pull  down  a  thick  flap  out  of 
the  blue,  and  disappear.  Mountain,  sky  and  land 
shifted  and  shone,  passed  in  an  eddy  of  broken 
glimpses,  stayed  in  a  still-set  picture,  or  were  lost  under 
covering  clouds. 

But  always  the  steep  little  path  led  up  through  the 
loose  cinder-slope,  and  always  we  climbed. 

The  steepest  and  most  tiring  part  of  the  climb, 
except  the  natural  staircase  below  the  summit,  is 
between  the  sixth  and  eighth  station,  where  the  path, 
leaving  the  cinder-slope,  runs  along  a  ridge  of  solid 
lava,  rising  like  the  long  root  of  a  tree  high  up  out  of 
the  cinders,  and  loses  itself  among  great  black  blocks. 
To  cross  this  was  something  like  jumping  over  sea 
rocks  when  the  tide  is  out,  only  instead  of  lying  flat 
these  went  steeply  upward. 

As  we  went  toiling  painfully  along,  feeling  very 
like  ants  crawling  up  a  tree-trunk,  the  clash  of  tiny 
cymbals,  the  faint  echoes  of  talk  and  laughter  came 
floating  up.  It  was  a  whole  party  of  pilgrims  who 
came  swinging  up  hand  over  hand,  as  it  were,  and 
as  easily  as  if  they  were  skating  on  good  ice.  We 
first  saw  them  as  we  stood  propped  against  the 


THE  ASCENT  75 

lava-blocks,  panting,  and  they  were  far  below  us, 
tiny  as  dwarfs,  little  spots  of  white  on  the  dead-black 
slope,  away  down  in  the  second  storey  as  we  were 
in  the  sixth.  But  as  we  laboriously  climbed  our 
inches  they  came  on  swiftly — on,  up,  on,  past  us  ; 
the  little  bells  clashing  and  chiming  gaily  to  the  talk 
and  laughter.  Our  guide  told  us  they  were  kuriimaya 
who  had  started  from  Gotcmba  that  morning  at  two, 
and  who  would  get  back  there  again  before  dark,  to 
work  the  next  day  as  usual.  Anything  like  the  pace 
at  which  those  men  came  up  the  steep  slope  of  Fuji — 
for  the  most  part  straight  over  the  long  beds  of  loose 
cinders — I  have  never  seen.  It  was  like  sailors  running 
up  a  rope.  They  came  up  more  swiftly  than  most 
people  would  care  to  go  down,  without  an  effort,  with 
plenty  of  breath  left  to  talk  and  laugh',  and  with  that 
supreme  ease  which  only  comes  when  doing  something 
well  within  the  margin  of  one's  power. 

We  were  very  glad  to  rest  at  No.  8,  though  our 
friends  the  kurumaya  had  gone  on  cheerfully.  It  was 
such  a  nice  large  tea-house,  beautifully  clean,  and  the 
hot  egg-bowls  full  of  tea  were  peculiarly  refreshing. 
Without  the  continuous  tea  I  do  not  know  how  one 
would  climb  Fuji  at  all.  The  air  at  13,000  feet 
freezes,  but  the  sun  of  Japan  pours  down  relentlessly, 
fierce  as  the  tropics,  while  the  hot  dust  drifts  down 
one's  throat,  into  one's  very  skin  ;  and  when  the  wind 
blows  you  need  to  cling  to  the  shifting  cinders  with 
the  very  soles  of  your  feet.  Shelter  on  the  bare  slopes 
of  Fuji  there  is  none.  Frequently  the  wind  is  so 
fierce  even  in  the  six  brief  weeks  of  summer  that  to 
stand  upright  is  impossible,  for  Fuji's  summit  is  in  the 
heart  of  the  storm. 

Between  the  eighth  and  the  ninth  station  the  path 


;6  LORD  FUJI 

was  easy,  but  we  climbed  it  wrapped  in  a  sudden 
cloud.  All  the  long  sweep  of  earth  below  was  gone. 
The  green  Tokyo  plain,  where  the  dark  thunder-clouds 
lay  brooding  in  the  still  blue  air,  and  the  great  fingers 
of  light  which  struck  so  fiercely  on  the  little  lakes 
beneath  the  mud  bank  of  the  hills,  the  dark  cone,  so 
near  above  us,  all  were  gone,  sponged  out  by  a  big 
cloud.  And  we  were  only  climbing  up  a  steep  black 
rope  that  hung  between  two  infinities,  climbing  out  of 
space,  into  space. 

From  the  ninth  and  last  station  you  climb  into 
Fuji's  stronghold  by  a  giant  staircase  of  rough  lava. 
It  is  necessary  here  to  hoist  yourself  painfully  up  by 
the  aid  of  guides  or  your  own  two  hands.  We 
climbed  on  slowly.  The  lava  was  quite  hot,  for  the 
staircase  lies  cut  within  the  slope,  and  gets  and  keeps 
the  heat. 

On  the  steepest  step  of  the  staircase  we  passed  an 
old,  old  man,  and  an  old,  old  woman,  both  in  the  white 
garb  of  pilgrims,  and  each  with  a  guide  on  either  side 
to  help  them  on.  The  last  pitiful  effort  of  the  old 
woman  to  drag  herself  up  on  to  a  lava-block  had  ex- 
hausted her  completely;  she  lay  huddled  against  the 
stones  gasping,  her  eyes  shut.  The  old  man  kneeling 
by  her  side  was  holding  the  wrinkled  hand  in  both  of 
his  trying  to  encourage  her.  The  cracked  old  voice, 
broken  with  quavering  pants  for  breath,  sounded 
strangely  on  the  desolate  black  staircase  as  we  came  by. 

"We  are  going,"  he  chanted — "we  are  going  to 
the  top." 

And  the  four  guides  in  their  fresh  young  voices 
sang  :  "  To  the  top,  to  the  top,  to  the  top." 

"We  are  going,"  repeated  the  old  man,  softly 
stroking  the  hand  he  held — "  we  are  going  to  the  top." 


THE  ASCENT  77 

And  again  the  four  young  voices  rang  out  vigour 
ously  :  "  To  the  top,  to  the  top,  to  the  top." 

It  was  the  pilgrims'  hymn,  and  the  old  woman  heard 
it.  Slowly  she  stirred,  her  mouth  opened  with  a  sigh 
of  utter  weariness,  but  still  she  too  sang  in  the  thinnest 
trickle  of  a  voice,  broken  with  quavering  sobs  : 

"  To  the  top,  to  the  top,  to  the  top." 

It  was  the  most  pathetic  music  I  have  ever  heard. 
Indeed  the  wave  of  faith  was  great  which  could  carry 
such  as  these  to  the  top  of  Fuji  San. 

Up  the  steep  steps,  cut  so  deep  within  the  lava,  we 
hurried  panting,  eager  we,  too,  to  reach  the  top.  But 
the  summit  of  Fujiyama  is  a  sanctuary,  and  on  its 
threshold  stood  two  priests. 

As  we  stumbled  up  over  the  last  step,  and  on  to  the 
path  which  runs  around  the  crater,  they  barred  our 
way,  standing  motionless  behind  a  white-wood  wicket. 
In  the  breeze  their  black  robes  fluttered,  their  tonsured 
heads  were  bare. 

Surprised  we  paused.  All  the  climber's  hurry  fell 
away.  This  was  not  another  peak  to  be  raced  up  and 
raced  down  by  the  indifferent  tourist,  not  another 
ascent  to  be  added  to  the  list  of  the  mountaineer. 
Fuji  San  is  sacred.  Enter  into  his  courts  as  into  the 
temple  of  the  Lord,  humbly,  reverently,  or  at  least 
with  a  sincere  respect. 

The  two  priests  leaned  over  the  wicket  as  we  came 
up  and  bowed ;  but  they  did  not  open  it.  One 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  our  staves  to  stamp  them 
with  the  temple's  crest.  On  the  summit  of  Fuji  San 
the  crest  is  stamped  in  vermilion  ink.  In  the  temples 
at  the  foot  it  is  burnt  with  a  red-hot  iron  :  vermilion  is 
a  royal  colour. 


78  LORD  FUJI 

The  other  priest,  holding  a  bamboo  dipper,  came 
slowly  towards  us.  Something  he  was  saying  as  he 
moved,  in  the  nasal  sing-song  of  the  priest.  Then 
he  motioned  to  us  to  put  out  our  hands  and  slowly, 
carefully,  he  poured  the  ice-cold  water  over  them. 
And  they  bade  us  enter.  It  was  the  rite  of  purifica- 
tion, the  symbol  of  the  contrite  heart  which  all  who 
cross  great  Fuji's  threshold  must  surely  bring. 

Once  inside  the  wicket  the  path,  beaten  wide  here, 
ran  between  a  breast-high  wall  of  lava  which,  built  like 
a  rampart  on  the  edge  of  Fuji,  hid  the  sheer  sides  of 
the  mountain  and  a  row  of  low  wooden  huts,  the  rest- 
houses — ran  between  these  and  on,  up  to  where  the 
black  edge  of  the  crater,  like  the  rim  of  a  broken  cup, 
cut  the  sky  in  sharp  clear  lines. 

For  the  moment  it  was  fine,  and  leaving  our  luggage 
in  one  of  the  huts  we  hurried  on,  past  the  rest-houses, 
on  past  the  rampart  wall,  on  along  the  little  beaten 
track  which  still  led  steeply  upwards.  Then  sharply  it 
turned,  and  we  stood  wedged  within  a  crack  in  the  crater 
wall,  with  the  sharp  black  rim  rising  high  on  either  hand. 

We  were  alone  on  Fuji's  side,  before  his  altar.  And 
there  was  no  sound. 

In  a  stillness  as  of  death  the  vast  crater  stretched 
800  feet  below,  and  the  grey  ash-dust  gathering  through 
two  centuries  lay  thick  and  smooth  as  sand  upon  the 
shore.  Steeply  the  cinder-walls  rose  up,  rose  round, 
and  held  the  ash.  Only  in  front  of  us,  across  half  a  mile 
of  silent  dust,  a  wide  crack  in  the  cup-like  rim  showed 
two  tall  poles  and  many  floating  banners,  there  where 
the  temple's  wicket  crossed  the  pathway  from  Gotemba. 

Grey  ash  and  cinder,  that  was  Fuji  San.  Once  a 
mighty  fire,  a  fire  two  and  a  half  miles  round,  with 


THE  ASCENT  79 

13,000  feet  of  cinders,  and  a  bed  of  ash  2000  feet 
across.  And  now,  dying  or  asleep,  rigid  as  death,  grown 
grey  and  cold,  but  yet  mighty  as  the  sea,  powerful  as 
the  storm  ;  Nature's  eternal  force  made  visible.  And 
that  still  life  which  rolls  around  our  human  incom- 
pleteness, mysterious  and  unknown,  drew  near.  Almost 
it  seemed  as  though  we  touched  the  force  without,  the 
unresting  naked  flame  of  being  which  threads  through 
the  spheres.  Almost  we  touched — but  saw  only  the 
corpse  of  Life,  for  Nature  keeps  her  secrets.  .  .  . 

In  a  silence  as  of  death,  the  vast  still  crater  stretched 
for  a  circle  of  two  miles,  and  the  grey  ash-dust  gather- 
ing through  two  centuries  lay  thick  and  smooth — the 
pall  of  a  mighty  God. 

Steeply  the  cindery  walls  rose  up,  rose  round  in 
jagged  points  like  the  rim  of  a  broken  cup,  and  into 
the  crack  there  came  two  white-clad  pilgrims.  They 
knelt  bareheaded  on  the  edge  of  the  crater,  looking 
down,  and  the  murmured  sing-song  of  their  prayers 
broke  the  silence.  Old  and  grizzled,  their  Lullet-heads 
were  bent  before  the  altar  in  a  Faith  reverent  and 
sincere. 

Truly  the  might  of  God  had  dwelt  on  Fuji ;  the 
breath  of  Eternal  Life  had  rested  here — rested  and 
passed,  or  was  passing  ;  and  the  pilgrim  in  his  faith 
holds  sacred  the  print  of  that  footstep.  He  prays  to 
that  part  of  the  Godhead  incarnate  in  Fuji — Fuji  so 
perfect  in  his  grace,  so  stirring  in  his  strength. 

In  western  lands  the  Roman  Catholic  peasant  prays 
before  his  altar,  but  the  symbol  of  his  Godhead  is 
often  reduced  to  a  composite  Christ  in  pink  and  white 
plaster.  If  Truth  must  have  a  form — and  mankind 
believes  with  difficulty  in  abstract  nouns — it  surely  is  a 


8o  LORD  FUJI 

purer,  grander  faith  to  feel  God  visible  in  Fuji's  curves, 
dwelling  in  his  sleeping  fires,  than  to  hem  Him  in  a 
building  made  by  man  and  seat  Him  on  an  ugly  altar 
between  groups  of  tawdry  flowers. 

The  little  narrow  path  which  led  down  into  the 
crack  led  also  round  the  summit  below  the  jagged 
edges  of  the  crater's  rim,  nnd  we  followed  it.  Outside 
the  crack  it  went  steeply  downwards  before  it  turned, 
for  above, the  cinderyslopes  of  Fuji  were  steaming  white 
in  the  sunshine,  and  the  ground  was  very  hot.  It  is  but 
a  patch,  still  evidence  that  Fuji  sleeps.  He  is  not  dead. 

Then  the  wandering  pathway,  a  black  thread  on  the 
loose  cinder-slope,  led  up  again,  round  and  down  into 
a  tiny  fold  among  the  cinders,  and  suddenly,  quickly 
as  a  camera  snaps,  the  white  clouds,  loosely  piled  upon 
the  mountain,  were  riven  asunder,  and  the  whole  world 
shimmering  in  a  golden  haze  that  touched  but  did  not 
hide  it,  lay  at  our  feet. 

Straight  down  below,  13,000  feet  away,  it  lay.  All 
the  long  line  of  the  river  Fujikawa,  gleaming  blue-black 
as  rough-cast  iron,  among  the  orange  sand-flats  of  its 
mouth.  And  the  soft  curves  of  the  Yokohama  penin- 
sula, a  smaller  but  more  graceful  Italy,  floating,  floating, 
on  the  water,  purple-blue  on  azure  blue. 

And  all  beyond  was  the  blue  intensity  of  the  infinite 
sea. 

So  near  it  looked,  so  clear  that  the  steely  line  of  the 
Fujikawa  seemed  a  sword-blade  one  could  stoop  and 
reach.  And  leaning  we  looked  from  Fuji's  top  as 
from  a  tower;  but  Fuji's  self  we  could  not  see.  His 
cinder-slopes  had  vanished. 

Straight  down  below  there  was  the  world,  and  we 
above  it  hung  suspended  13,000  feet  above  the  earth. 


THE  ASCENT  81 

Beyond,  above,  outside  of  it.  Dear  Earth,  how  still  it 
lay,  how  beautiful ! 

And  into  my  mind  there  floated  the  old,  old  words  : 
"And  He  divided  the  land  from  the  waters,  and  the 
dry  land  He  called  Earth.  .  .  .  And  God  looked  and 
saw  that  it  was  good." 

Above  the  world,  beyond  it,  we  too  could  look  and 
see,  and  we  too  "  saw  that  it  was  good." 

Then  the  little  wandering  track,  beaten  firm  by  the 
feet  of  the  pilgrims,  led  on,  up  and  down,  among  the 
cinders  of  Fuji's  sides,  and  round  to  that  great  crack 
in  the  cup's  rim  where  the  pathway  from  Gotemba 
reached  the  summit. 

Here  were  crowds  of  people,  all  the  pilgrims  on  Fuji 
San,  pouring  through  the  white-wood  wicket,  or  buying 
draughts  of  the  sacred  "  Golden  Water  "  which  is  born 
in  the  depths  of  the  crater. 

As  we  stood  drinking  our  little  bowlful  of  the  ice- 
cold  water,  the  low  boom  of  a  Japanese  temple  bell 
came  swaying  through  the  air,  and  each  jagged  peak 
round  the  crater's  rim  added  its  muffled  echo  to  the 
bell's  deep  boom. 

The  level  space  which  formed  the  floor  to  this  big 
crack  was  full  of  pilgrims  old  and  young,  men,  women 
and  little  children,  and  they  were  all  pressing  forward 
between  the  tall  poles,  where  the  long  banners  tied  top 
and  bottom  were  stirring  in  the  wind,  to  the  little  temple 
lying  under  the  very  edge  of  Fuji,  as  a  nest  beneath 
the  eaves.  The  temple  seemed  full  already,  but  the 
crowd,  courteous  for  all  their  zeal,  pressed  forward 
gently,  content,  if  they  could  not  enter,  to  stay  outside. 

Again  the  low  liquid  boom  came  swaying  through 
the  air,  prolonged  by  the  muffled  echoes  of  the  jagged 


82  LORD  FUJI 

peaks.  And  we  too  walked  towards  the  temple.  But 
the  patient  crowd  without  reached  already  to  the  path- 
way, and  must  press  back  against  the  cinder  sides  as 
the  long  procession  of  black-robed  priests,  with  copes 
and  stoles  and  vestments  of  rich  brocade,  swept  into 
the  temple. 

Then  the  liquid  booming  bell  swayed  out  again — and 
was  still ;  and  the  muffled  echoes  of  the  peaks,  subdued 
and  faint,  lingered  in  the  intense  silence. 

The  priests  had  passed  within. 

The  ash  on  the  floor  of  the  crater  was  soft  and  very 
thick.  It  lay  in  thin  round  flakes  that  broke  between 
the  fingers,  and  the  feet  sank  into  it,  drawn  under  as 
on  sand  that  is  half-quick.  It  was  like  walking  on 
piles  of  those  sun-lit  flecks  that  carpet  a  beech-wood  ; 
but  the  light  had  gone  out  of  these  and  left  them 
pale  and  grey. 

All  around  the  black  walls  of  the  crater  rose  up  into 
the  sky,  five  hundred  feet  of  sheer  height.  Shut  into 
the  crater  pit  with  the  dead  ash  sucking  our  feet  we 
seemed  to  have  come  to  the  region  where  death  lies 
behind — and  birth  is  yet  to  come.  We  stood  in  the 
Place  of  Pause,  in  that  Between  which  is  Nothingness. 

Smooth  as  the  sand  of  the  shore  the  ash  stretched 
along.  Loose  and  thick  the  flakes  were  piled,  and 
the  feet,  drawn  under,  grew  heavy. 

What  was  beneath  ?     Nothingness  ? 

And  a  strange  fear  of  falling  through  the  loose  ash 
into  that  Nothingness  grew  with  each  empty  moment. 

Faintly,  far  away,  the  stir  of  Life's  Birth  reached 
into  the  void.  It  came  from  below,  deep  through  the 
ash  where  a  little  clear  trickle  of  water  sang  in  the 
silence.  Distinct,  but  so  soft  that  the  senses  must 


THE  ASCENT  83 

needs  strain  to  hear.  Through  the  ash,  beneath  the 
ash,  the  water  trickled,  faint  as  a  new-born  breath. 
And  its  name  it  was  Golden. 

The  hut  when  we  reached  it  was  empty,  and  it  lay 
facing  the  lava-wall,  the  last  of  the  row,  and  all  of 
them  were  open  in  front,  like  cages  at  the  Zoo. 

The  square  pit  with  its  charcoal  fire  was  in  front 
here,  and  we  had  to  pass  behind  it  to  reach  the 
unoccupied  space  at  the  back.  As  we  crawled  over 
the  matting  darkened  by  our  own  shadows,  for  the 
only  light  came  through  the  open  front,  we  almost 
stumbled  over  some  one  rolled  up  in  a  bundle  of  futon. 
It  was  the  old,  old  woman  of  the  morning.  She  was 
asleep,  in  the  deep,  dull  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion,  and 
her  wrinkled  chin,  dropped  down,  trembled,  as  she  slept. 

It  was  very  cold  in  the  hut,  and  we  too  were  glad  of 
futon  and  egg-bowls  of  hot  tea,  glad  to  eat  our  tinned 
tongue  and  slices  of  dry  bread,  and  gladder  still  just 
to  stay  wrapt  in  \hefuton,  and  sleepily  rest. 

The  landlord,  like  an  image,  sat  on  his  heels  in  the 
well  and  never  stirred.  From  time  to  time  he  put 
fresh  pieces  of  charcoal  on  the  fire  with  a  pair  of  brass 
chopsticks ;  then  the  smoke,  sweeping  in  dense  waves 
through  the  room,  would  make  us  all  cough  abruptly, 
till  it  melted  slowly  away  and  the  room  was  still. 

Beyond  the  lava-wall  the  grey-white  clouds  lay 
herded  as  a  fold  of  sheep,  and  we  watched  them 
mounting  up  and  up,  rolling  against  the  wall,  rising 
above  it,  sending  thin  wreaths  and  wisps  of  mists 
across  the  pathway,  which  stayed  like  ribbons  in  the 
air,  and  then  sinking,  dropped  down  again.  Often  they 
came  up,  and  always  rolled  back  beaten.  Fuji's 
summit  is  above  the  clouds,  they  could  not  scale  it. 


84  LORD  FUJI 

In  twos  and  threes  and  little  groups,  the  white- 
robed  pilgrims  stopped  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  the 
matting  and  drink  tea,  and  eat  innumerable  balls  of  rice 
rolled  in  a  soft  grated  substance  that  looked  to  be,  but 
was  not,  cheese — a  thing  unknown  in  this  milkless  land. 
So  the  pilgrims  sat  on  the  matting  and  ate  their  rice- 
balls,  which  the  landlord,  without  moving  his  body  a 
hair's-breadth,  produced  and  rolled,  and  sprinkled,  and 
handed.  And  the  acrid  smoke  from  the  charcoal  fire 
drifted  across  the  room,  filling  it. 

Quite  suddenly  I  awoke  out  of  my  sleep,  to  find 
some  one  on  the  floor  beside  me  waking  the  old,  old 
woman.  It  took  her  a  long  time  to  struggle  out  of 
that  dense,  deep  sleep  into  a  state  of  even  drowsy 
consciousness.  She  sat  up,  bewildered,  and  when 
they  told  her  she  must  go,  get  up,  climb  all  that 
weary  way  down  again,  the  old  face  seemed  to  shrink 
together  in  hopeless  despair.  There  was  a  long  dreary 
pause.  Then  the  old,  old  woman  bowed,  the  smile  of 
courtesy  upon  her  worn  old  face. 

"  Yoroshil  gozaimas  "  ("As  it  honourably  pleases 
you  "),  she  said.  And  rising,  she  tottered  out. 

This  flesh  was  more  than  weak,  but  the  spirit  was 
the  spirit  of  her  race — it  sacrificed  all  things. 

We  were  to  sleep  in  Yoshida  that  night,  and  for  us 
too  it  was  time  to  go.  So  leaving  our  money  on  the 
edge  of  the  fire-pit  we  crawled  out  of  the  hut.  The 
image  sitting  on  its  heels  never  stirred  ;  with  one 
swift  glance  beneath  the  eyelids,  he  had  reckoned  the 
money  to  the  last  sen,  but  whether  more  or  less  than 
he  expected,  he  remained  immovable,  magnificently 
unconscious,  occupied  solely  in  bowing  us  out.  Had 


THE  ASCENT  85 

it  been  less  than  the  proper  charge  we  certainly  should 
have  heard  of  it  through  the  guide,  but  as  tea  is  never 
charged  for,  each  visitor  pays  for  it  according  to  his 
rank,  exigencies,  generosity,  and  the  status  of  the 
tea-house.  In  reality,  of  course,  it  is  payment  for 
attendance  as  well  as  tea. 

The  Japanese  hold  that  no  service  performed  can 
ever  have  a  money  equivalent.  In  their  economy, 
money  was  never  a  real  asset,  as  courage,  knowledge 
or  art,  and  they  ignored  it,  when  they  did  not  despise 
it.  So  in  the  old  days,  those  trades  which  had  most  to 
do  with  money,  whose  aim  seemed  to  be  the  getting 
of  money,  were  looked  down  on.  Shopkeepers  and 
merchants  ranked  below  swordsmiths,  peasants  and 
artisans.  Only  the  ignoble  would  choose  such  as  a 
life's  work,  and  if  to-day  this  idea  has  hindered  com- 
merce, if  it  has  produced  the  low  standard  of  some 
business  men,  and  consequently  the  foreigner's  bad 
opinion  of  them,  it  has,  on  the  other  hand,  lifted  the 
nation  out  of  the  rut  of  sordid  greed,  made  it  seek 
after,  and  lay  fast  hold  of,  that  which  seems  to  it  true 
— made  of  its  people  a  race  of  men,  of  gentlemen, 
honourable,  high-principled,  and  capable  of  indomit- 
able devotion  to  their  ideal. 

We  stepped  off  the  summit  of  Fuji  San  into  a  wet 
white  cloud,  which  was  the  sky  of  the  earth  below. 
For  the  first  two  stages  the  way  down  was  the  same 
as  the  way  up,  but  at  No.  8  the  paths  divided,  the 
one  to  Yoshida  leading  away  to  the  left. 

After  we  had  made  a  sort  of  semi-tour  of  the  moun- 
tain we  climbed  over  a  lava-ridge  and  found  ourselves 
in  the  centre  of  a  black  scoop  in  Fuji's  side  that, 
coming  from  above,  stretched  interminably  downwards. 


86  LORD  FUJI 

And  the  whole  of  the  huge  groove  was  a  mass  of  the 
loosest,  most  shifting  cinder.  There  was  no  path.  One 
went  down.  At  each  step  all  the  cinders  on  that  part 
of  Fuji  slid  bodily,  tumbling  over  each  other  in  their 
haste.  You  slid  too,  until  the  cinders,  piling  them- 
selves up  and  up,  reached  the  knee,  and  abruptly  you 
stopped,  only  to  pull  out  that  leg  and  begin  to  slide 
again  with  the  other.  The  rate  at  which  one  shot 
down  was  prodigious,  and  the  method  alarming.  Each 
step  seemed  to  start  half  the  mountain  rolling,  rolling, 
for  ever  downwards,  and  there  seemed  no  particular 
reason  why  the  other  half  with  you  on  it  should  not 
roll  away  too.  Positively,  as  the  torrent  of  cinders 
rolled  and  rolled  and  rolled,  the  conviction  that  Fuji- 
yama must  look  smaller  next  morning  grew  upon  me. 
Until  with  a  flash  of  understanding  I  remembered 
the  legend  of  the  dust  brought  down  by  the  pilgrims' 
feet  flying  each  night  back  to  the  mountain.  And  it 
seemed  a  very  necessary  explanation,  and  quite  con- 
vincing too,  when  I  looked  at  the  tons  and  tons  of 
cinders  which  my  feet  alone  were  sending  down  Fuji's 
side. 

After  awhile  the  slope  grew  even  steeper,  and  the 
cinders  from  black  became  a  deep  dull  red.  And  still 
one  shot  downwards.  Small  patches  of  powdery,  grey 
snow  sprinkled  with  tiny  round  spots  were  tucked 
away  here  between  the  red  cinders,  and  the  whole 
slope  was  covered  with  the  straw  sandals  of  former 
pilgrims.  They  were  scattered  over  the  red  cinders 
like  a  new  kind  of  vegetation  hardier  than  the  rest, 
and  there  were  thousands  on  thousands  of  them. 

And  still  we  shot  downwards.  At  too  steep  an 
angle  now  to  be  brought  up  merely  by  the  weight  of 
the  cinders,  so  that  we  were  obliged  to  invent  brakes 


THE  ASCENT  87 

with  our  more  or  less  free  foot,  our  extended  arms,  or 
the  angle  of  our  bodies  ;  and  we  were  very  glad  indeed 
of  our  staves  to  put  any  sort  of  term  to  the  long 
uncomfortable  slide. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  we  passed  out  of  the 
zone  of  the  waraji,  and  saw  real  little  green  things 
growing  between  the  cinders.  They  looked  utterly 
miserable  and  degenerate,  but  they  did  make  the 
ballast  solider,  and  the  sliding  easier. 

It  was  a  gigantic  slide,  but  we  brought  up  at  last  on  a 
ridge  of  grey  rock,  over  which  we  had  to  climb  carefully, 
for  it  was  full  of  holes.  On  the  other  side  of  this  ridge 
the  degenerate  green  weeds  had  grown  into  degenerate 
green  plants  ;  and  after  a  few  more  slides  and  climbs 
the  plants  became  bushes,  stunted  and  miserable,  but 
bushes,  and  we  came  out  on  to  a  sort  of  natural  grass 
platform,  before  the  rest-house  of  No.  4,  Yoshidaside. 
It  was  dirty,  the  first  dirty  house  I  had  ever  seen  in 
Japan.  Below  us,  as  though  stopped  short  by  a  word 
of  command,  "  Thus  far  and  no  further,"  were  the  trees  ; 
the  tops  of  the  nearest  were  on  a  level  with  the  plat- 
form, but  not  one  grew  upon  it. 

With  the  cinder-slope  behind  us  we  stepped  off  the 
grass  platform  straight  into  the  forest.  It  was  a 
beautiful  forest.  First  firs,  and  then,  as  we  went 
downwards,  green  trees,  small  oaks  and  cryptomerias 
of  all  kinds. 

To  feet  weary  of  ballast-heaps,  the  forest  footpath 
was  a  rest  refreshing,  and  the  delight  of  growing  trees 
and  green  fresh  leaves  after  waraji  and  cinders,  an 
enchantment.  But  Fuji  had  not  finished  his  surprises 
or  his  trials.  Soon  the  pathway  disappeared  from 
under  our  feet,  and  only  the  roots  of  the  trees  remained. 
On  these  we  had  to  walk,  and  they  were  slippery, 


88  LORD  FUJI 

knotted,  and  far  apart,  and  full  of  tangled  holes  that 
caught  and  tripped  the  feet. 

A  polite  Japanese  student  came  and  walked  with  us 
a  little  way  "to  improve  his  English,"  but  his  feet  in 
their  waraji  stepped  over  the  tree-roots  faster  than  ours 
in  our  boots,  and  we  were  soon  left  alone  again. 

Gradually,  as  we  went  downwards,  the  forest  altered 
from  the  austere  wood  of  the  mountain  to  the  rich 
luxuriant  wood  of  the  plains,  green  with  moss,  covered 
with  creepers,  dripping  with  big  juicy  drops  of  water 
as  though  rich  sap  were  oozing  from  every  vein. 

All  through  the  wood  there  were  tiny  tea-houses,  set 
under  a  tree  and  lost  among  the  branches.  We  passed 
No.  i  at  least  seven  times,  each  time  certain  that  it 
really  must  be  the  real  original  No.  i,  and  that  the 
"  horse-turn-back  "  station,  where  we  could  get  a  basha 
to  carry  us  to  Yoshida,  was  necessarily  "  the  next." 
After  the  weary  sliding  down  that  abrupt  slope,  the 
muscles  of  one's  legs  were  all  trembling  with  the  strain, 
and  the  tree-roots,  slippery  and  uncertain,  became 
doubly  difficult.  We  were  still  going  down  so  steeply 
that  the  hollow  of  the  pathway  lay  like  a  green  chimney 
below  us.  Slowly  up  through  this  living  funnel  came 
the  pilgrim's  chant. 

"We  are  going,"  and  the  little  bells  clashed  out 
triumphant — "  we  are  going  to  the  top." 

Then  the  deep  sing-song  of  the  chorus,  coming 
nearer  with  each  syllable,  grew  louder : 

"Top  ...  the  top  ...  to  the  top." 

We  waited  while  the  chant  coming  up  from  the 
green  depths  below  came  nearer,  came  past  us,  went  on. 

From  the  green  heights  above  it  sounded  down. 

"We  are  going,"  and  the  tiny  cymbals  clashed 
—"we  are  going  to  the  top." 


THE  ASCENT  89 

And  faintly  echoing  from  above  came  the  answer  : 
"To  the  top  ...  the  top  ...  top." 

And  still  the  first  stations  succeeded  one  another, 
and  the  tired  feet  and  the  aching  muscles  grew  more 
weary.  The  wood  was  dense  as  ever,  but  less  steep, 
and  at  last  there  came  earth  as  well  as  tree-roots  for  a 
pathway. 

We  passed  through  another  station,  half  tea-house, 
half  temple,  where  a  man  sat  behind  a  tray  of  thin 
irons  stamped  with  the  temple's  crest,  and  where  gods 
and  tea-bowls  filled  the  shelves.  The  path  went 
through  it  and  out  again,  under  the  trees,  a  path  of 
good  stamped  earth.  Then  twisting  suddenly  it  ended 
in  four  smooth  green  steps  that  led  down  into  a  natural 
amphitheatre,  with  tea-houses  on  each  side.  This 
was  the  Mma  gaeshi — "  horse-turn-back  "  station — 
Yoshida  side.  Away  to  the  left  were  several  square 
boxes  on  wheels,  otherwise  the  stage  was  empty.  It  was, 
indeed,  exactly  like  a  "set"  in  an  opera. 

We  hobbled,  it  was  so  difficult  to  walk  on  flat  earth, 
to  a  tea-house  and  sat  down  demanding  basha.  Slowly 
a  man  entered  right  front,  and  crossing  left  centre 
tipped  up  a  square  box  and  waited.  Then  another 
man,  entering  left  front,  harnessed  a  horse  to  it.  This 
took  them  half  an  hour,  because  they  wanted  four  times 
too  much  for  the  drive  to  Yoshida,  and  at  each  refusal, 
at  each  expostulation,  at  each  rebate,  the  one  man 
dropped  the  square  box  down  on  the  ground  and  the 
other  gave  up  harnessing  the  horse.  Meanwhile  we 
drank  tea  and  monotonously  repeated  our  price.  After 
half  an  hour  the  basha  was  finally  harnessed,  and 
crossing  left  front  we  got  in. 

This  basha  was  simply  a  square  box  without  a  lid, 


90  LORD  FUJI 

mounted  on  wheels.  You  sat  on  a  piece  of  matting 
spread  at  the  bottom,  leant  against  the  wooden  back 
and  clutched  hard  at  the  sides  to  keep  yourself  in. 
The  driver  sat  on  the  shaft  and  used  his  feet  as  a 
brake.  The  reins  consisted  of  one  length  of  straw 
rope  attached  to  the  left  side  of  the  horse's  head. 

For  the  first  half-hour  the  relief  of  stretching  out 
one's  miserable,  trembling  legs  was  pure  bliss,  after  that, 
dasJta-driviag  was  pleasant  but  jolty,  and  after  that  it 
became  renewed  torture  to  endure  the  jolting,  and  the 
aches  in  one's  back  and  arms  were  vigorous  and  per- 
sistent. Road  there  was  none,  only  two  large  ruts,  in, 
over  and  among  which  we  wandered. 

The  trees  stopped  as  abruptly  above  the  natural 
amphitheatre  of  Mma  gaeshi  as  they  had  begun  below 
the  platform  of  No.  4.  And  for  the  whole  two  hours 
of  our  journey  to  Yoshida  we  travelled  over  an  immense 
far-reaching  common,  one  of  the  soft  ripples  at  Fuji's 
base.  There  was  not  a  house  or  a  village  to  be  seen, 
noth'iVg  but  the  wide  stretch  of  green  common. 

It  was  half-past  five  when  the  basha  started  out 
among  the  ruts,  and  the  clear,  colourless  light  of  a 
northern  evening — we  were  3000  feet  up — which  is 
not  cold,  yet  is  so  colourless,  enclosed  the  earth.  The 
sky  was  as  bare  of  clouds  as  the  common  of  land- 
marks; the  one  lay  palely  blue  above,  the  other  stretched 
subduedly  green  below.  Here  and  there  the  green  was 
crossed  by  long  flushes  of  colour,  with  the  red  of  tiny 
tige/ -lilies,  and  the  pale  yellow  of  the  evening  primrose. 
Behind,  Lord  Fuji  rose  majestic.  At  first  a  line  of 
fleecy  cloud  had  lain  above  the  deep  green  of  the  forest, 
ar.d  Fuji's  head  was  lost  in  mist,  but  at  the  sunset  the 
clouds  fell  away  lower  and  lower,  until  the  whole  long 
sweep  of  Fuji  rose  up  triumphant  into  the  blue. 


THE  ASCENT  91 

It  was  but  slowly  that  the  basha  jolted  among  the 
deep-cut  ruts  of  the  common,  and  but  slowly  that  we 
travelled  on,  downwards. 

Looking  out  across  the  wide  flat  land  we  saw  that 
the  whole  world  was  slightly  rounded,  slightly  tilted. 
It  was  like  journeying  over  a  large  green  apple.  The 
globe  in  fact  palpable,  visibly  rounded.  Away  on  the 
left  the  sun  was  setting  in  straight  streamers  of  pale 
red  edged  with  shining  gold.  And  the  green  common, 
with  its  pools  of  little  red  lilies,  and  its  bands  of  pale 
yellow  primroses,  grew  greyer  and  greyer. 

Fuji  San,  perfect  in  long  smooth  curves,  stood  purple- 
blue  behind.  Clear-cut  as  a  jewel  in  a  setting  he  rose 
up,  rose  up,  until  the  rounded  strength  of  his  summit 
lay  bright  sapphire  on  the  azure  sky. 

Over  the  ruts  the  basha  stumbled,  endlessly  jolting. 

The  sun  set  slowly,  and  slowly  the  colours  died. 
Grey  lay  the  common  in  front  of  us,  on  each  side. 
Lord  Fuji  was  but  a  dark,  still  shadow.  And  over  the 
ruts  the  basha  stumbled  in  long,  slow  jolts. 

We  were  very  tired,  our  backs  ached  with  the 
jolting,  and  our  arms  were  numb  with  pain.  All 
around  us  the  grey  spaces  of  the  common  stretched 
uninterruptedly,  without  house  or  village.  Where  was 
Yoshida  ? 

Still  the  baska  lumbered  and  stumbled,  and  we  looked 
for  lights  and  houses. 

Nothing.  Only  in  front  of  us  the  grey  level  of  the 
common  grew  tall  and  black.  ...  In  a  few  more  jolts 
the  deep  black  had  engulfed  us,  grey  common  and  all, 
and  we  were  wandering  among  dark  shadows  that 
were  trees. 

In  the  very  pitch  of  the  blackness  the  cart  suddenly 


92  LORD  FUJI 

stopped.     We  were  asked  to  get  out.     The  basha  went 
no  further. 

"But  Yoshida?" 

"  Yoshida  yoroshl ! — all  right,"  replied  the  man, 
unconcerned,  as  though  every  traveller  to  every  town 
arrived  in  a  dark  wood  without  sight  or  sound  of 
houses  ;  and  he  drove  off. 

Our  guide  picked  up  the  luggage,  and  we  followed 
stumbling,  straining  our  eyes  to  tell  the  deeper  shadows 
that  were  trees  from  the  paler  dark  that  meant  pathway. 

Slowly  the  deeper  shadows  receded,  and  in  their  place 
came  the  dim  forms  of  houses.  Then  a  sharp  turn 
and  we  were  walking  along  a  real  road  with  the  familiar 
knitting-needles  of  the  Japanese  tramway  shining  in 
the  twilight.  After  a  while  the  houses  grew  denser, 
and  some  of  them  had  lights ;  but  the  contrast  only  made 
the  pale  dark  of  the  open  roadway  seem  still  blacker. 

Large  trucks,  like  kitchen-tables  with  their  legs  cut 
short,  came  sliding  past  us  as  we  stumbled  on,  gliding 
slowly  down  the  road  alone  and  unattached. 

Parties  of  pilgrims  in  white,  with  white  staves  in 
their  hands,  came  unexpectedly  out  of  the  darkness, 
and  the  lighted  paper  lanterns  in  their  hands  warmed 
their  white  clothes  into  a  rich  cream-yellow,  precipi- 
tating them  into  solid  bodies  from  the  waist  down- 
ward, while  their  heads  and  shoulders  drifted  slowly 
on  through  the  pale  night  like  impalpable  ghosts. 

We  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  road,  in 
a  sudden  turn,  ran  sharply  away  from  us.  The  houses 
were  on  both  sides  now  in  one  continuous  line,  and  the 
shock  of  meeting  trucks  jarred  through  the  street. 
There  was  a  flare  of  orange  light  where  the  knitting- 
needles  became  a  shunting-yard. 

This  was  Yoshida. 


THE  ASCENT  93 

Our  landlady  was  aristocratic  to  her  finger-tips.  She 
had  the  long  slim  neck,  the  long  thin  face,  with  its 
pure  outlines,  the  long  narrow  eyes,  the  long  graceful 
body,  and  the  delicate  poise  which  is  the  ideal  type  of 
the  aristocrat — and  rare  even  among  them.  When 
she  knelt  on  the  matting  to  receive  us,  she  did  it  with 
the  distinction  of  a  queen,  and  all  her  movements 
showed  that  clean-cut  grace,  that  courtesy  without 
effort,  that  refinement  of  pose  and  gesture  which  only 
the  continued  culture  of  long  generations  can  produce, 
and  which  is  to  mere  politeness  or  mere  beauty  as  the 
subtle  music  of  the  poet  to  Monsieur  Jourdain's 
prose.  Her  husband  was  a  bullet-headed  man  of  the 
people,  stubby  and  plebeian.  His  manners,  like  his 
Japanese,  were  polite  of  course,  but  undistinguished, 
while  our  hostess  spoke  a  language  as  courtly  as  her 
ways.  When  she  glided  over  the  matting,  her  long 
sleeves  swaying,  or  stretched  out  her  thin  slim- 
fingered  hand  to  take  our  tea-caps,  we  felt  like  beings 
of  a  lower  evolution,  and  this  higher  product,  evolved 
by  centuries  of  self-control  and  a  living  love  of  beauty, 
was  the  human  form  made  perfect,  to  which  we  might, 
perhaps,  one  day  attain. 

Even  the  inn  possessed  something  of  her  grace  :  the 
matting  was  whiter,  the  woodwork  smoother,  the  steep 
stairway — set  like  a  ladder  between  the  walls — more 
polished  than  elsewhere.  The  tiny  medallions  set  deep 
in  the  skoji,  which  are  as  the  handles  to  our  doors,  were 
works  of  art.  The  miniature  garden  of  the  courtyard, 
with  its  hills  and  trees  and  swift  grey  stream,  was  a 
living  landscape,  perfect  in  form  and  colouring.  Even 
the  shallow  brass  pans  in  which  we  washed,  the  com- 
monest of  hotel  furniture,  had  an  elegance  of  their  own. 
And  in  the  refined  and  beautiful  inn  our  graceful,  courtly 


94  LORD  FUJI 

landlady  knelt  and  offered  us  platefuls  of  "  mixed 
biscuits."  They  were  certainly  cheap  ones,  but  never 
did  the  utter  vulgarity  of  their  shapes,  or  the  crudeness 
of  their  colouring,  strike  so  sharply  on  my  senses.  If 
they  had  tasted  like  manna  from  the  wilderness  I  could 
not  have  eaten  one.  They  were  too  ugly. 

It  is  vivid  still,  the  bliss  of  that  hot  bath  in  fresh 
mountain  water  pumped  from  a  stream  which  comes 
from  Fuji's  sacred  slopes,  and  the  joy  of  that  long 
dreamless  sleep  under  the  green  mosquito  curtain  in 
our  white  matted  room.  Vivid  still,  the  breakfast  cooked 
over  the  hibachi,  with  our  aristocratic  landlady,  every 
line  of  her  graceful  form  looking  purer  and  more  refined 
as  she  stooped  to  hold  the  handle  of  the  frying-pan, 
while  her  stolid  husband  on  his  knees  before  his 
office  desk  in  the  corner  looked  on  good-naturedly, 
and  the  stout  little  maid  watched  the  foreign  cooking 
of  our  ham  as  though  it  had  been  a  sacred  rite. 

We  were  to  return  by  the  lakes  which  encircle  Fuji, 
and  we  set  out  that  morning  along  a  dull  dusty  road 
between  dull  dusty  banks. 

It  was  but  a  little  way  to  the  first  lake,  but  hot  beyond 
believing,  and  when  we  reached  it,  and  pushed  out  in 
our  boat  beyond  the  narrow  inlet  which  ran  deep  into  the 
road,  the  heat  settled  down  like  a  roof  above  our  heads. 

The  sky  was  one  superb  arch  of  azure  blue  ;  the  earth 
in  front  of  us  a  wide,  bare  flat,  glittering  with  heat. 
And  from  out  of  that  gleaming,  quivering  mist  which 
hid  the  level  land  Great  Fuji  rose  dark  blue  on  blue. 
Naked  and  superb  he  stood  against  the  background 
of  the  sky  secure  in  his  strength,  perfect  in  his  beauty, 
beyond  words,  beyond  praise,  in  sober  truth — divine. 

It  took  an  hour  and  a  half  to  cross  the  lake,  and 


THE  ASCENT  95 

all  the  time  Fuji  San,  set  in  the  framework  of  the  tur- 
quoise sky,  with  the  gleaming,  glittering  mist  of  light 
sweeping  like  an  iridescent  cloud  to  the  edge  of  his 
dark  blue  slope,  stayed  with  us.  For  an  hour  and  a 
half  we  looked,  and  the  form  and  the  soul  of  the 
mountain  sank  deep  within  our  hearts. 

The  second  lake  is  divided  from  the  first  by  a  natural 
wall  of  hill  over  which  we  climbed,  the  sun  striking 
fiercely  on  the  pathway  where  one  small  patch  of  shade 
lay  black  on  the  thick  white  dust. 

The  second  lake  was  set  deep  within  the  circle  of  the 
hills,  and  we  crossed  it  in  company  with  three  men  who 
had  drunk  much  sakt^  and  another  who  stuck  fuses  into 
a  row  of  dynamite  cartridges  and  then,  leaving  them 
under  a  corner  of  the  matting  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
apparently  forgot  their  existence.  These  four  passen- 
gers and  the  two  boatmen  were  continually  stumbling 
up  and  down  the  boat  to  row  in  turns,  and  always 
within  a  few  inches  of  the  dynamite. 

It  was  a  somewhat  agitating  row,  although  we  were 
assured  the  cartridges  were  "  only  for  fishing." 

It  ended  at  last,  after  a  long  two  hours  of  suspense, 
among  the  quiet  grey  boulders  which  stretched  for  a 
hundred  yards  between  the  water  and  the  wood. 

Down  the  little  valley  beyond  the  stones,  a  winding 
river  of  rice-fields  ran  like  a  grass-green  stream,  and 
we  followed  it,  as  one  follows  up  a  mountain  brook,  till 
it  dwindled  and  disappeared.  Then  the  wood  closed 
in  above  it,  and  we  were  in  the  middle  of  a  weird 
uncanny  forest,  all  grey  and  wrinkled,  where  multitudes 
of  thick-set  pole-like  trees,  covered  with  a  powdery 
dust,  ranged  ghost-like  out  of  sight. 

And  here  we  walked,  the  only  living  things  in  a 


96  LORD  FUJI 

spell-bound  world,  walked  until  the  earth  grew  thin 
beneath  our  feet  and  the  rough  grey  boulders  came  up 
through  the  soil. 

Then  for  a  long,  long  while  we  went  beside  a  grey 
lava-river  flowing  between  the  grey  tree-stems,  a  wide 
and  furious  river  arrested  as  it  swept  in  angry  tumult 
through  the  wood,  stopped  dead,  and  each  breaking 
wave  turned  into  stone.  We  looked  at  this  still,  dead 
river  and  saw  how  the  years  had  covered  the  waves 
with  a  thick  white  crust  of  dust.  Buried  deep  lay  that 
tempest  of  passion  which  once  had  swept  burning  from 
Fuji's  sides,  buried  deep  beneath  blocks  of  grey  lava 
and  the  drifting  ash-grey  dust. 

Yet  the  very  stones  that  buried  it  were  carved  in  its 
image.  And  the  face  of  that  passion,  petrified  and 
deadly,  looked  up  from  the  river.  And  all  around 
the  grey  wood  stood  dead  too,  and  very  still,  coated 
deep  with  a  powdery  dust,  ash-grey.  For  the  spell  of 
the  river  was  over  the  wood,  and  it  was  the  death  of 
Destruction. 

For  miles  we  walked  beside  that  Medusa  river, 
sometimes  we  left  it,  sometimes  we  crossed  it,  then 
losing  it  between  the  trees  we  wandered  where  the 
ghostly  pole-like  trunks  grew  thickest.  But  always 
the  river  came  back  with  the  dead  passion  that  made 
it  staring  rigid  beneath  the  stones. 

Miles  and  miles  of  lava,  wide,  and  long,  and  deep. 
The  ghostly  trees  were  rooted  in  it,  the  very  lakes  lay 
cradled  in  it,  the  world  for  far  around  was  made  of  it. 
Verily  the  fires  of  Fuji  San  were  mighty  in  those  days. 

The  third  lake  was  black,  ink-black,  black  as  strong- 
cast  shadows  in  the  moonlight.  Tarnished  and  still  it 
lay,  without  a  glitter  or  a  gleam  ;  yet  the  washing 


THE  ASCENT  97 

wavelets,  as  they  poured  over  the  stone  at  our  feet, 
were  pure  and  clear,  and  the  high  steep  hills  that  half 
encircled  it  were  dense  with  the  greenest  trees. 

The  ghostly  wood  was  ended,  the  petrified  river 
gone ;  on  the  banks  of  this  sombre  lake  living  trees 
were  growing.  Tangled  and  thick  and  high,  they 
walled  in  three  sides  of  the  lake,  and,  sweeping  round 
in  a  long  thin  promontory,  divided  the  ink-black  waters 
with  a  sword  of  green. 

Along  the  hill  there  ran  no  pathway,  the  trees  stood 
too  thick,  the  hill  too  steep.  There  was  no  boat  upon 
the  lake  nor  any  road  around  it.  The  black  waters 
washed  to  the  foot  of  the  trees,  the  trees  stretched 
green  to  the  top  of  the  hills,  and  lake  and  wood  were 
still  as  undiscovered  country. 

And  behind  us  lay  all  the  long  silence  of  the  ghostly 
wood. 

On  the  very  edge  of  the  promontory  a  white  house 
rested,  poised  like  a  gull  on  the  water,  but  the  dead- 
black  lake  gave  back  no  reflection,  and  the  dark-green 
hills  caught  no  colour  from  the  sun,  nor  stirred  a  leaf. 
Silent  as  the  waters  the  house  poised  white  beneath  the 
evening  sky. 

On  three  sides  the  high  hills  shut  in  the  lake,  but 
on  the  fourth  the  lava-stones  met  the  marsh,  the  marsh 
the  common,  and  wide  and  flat  the  common  stretched 
away  to  the  beyond. 

A  little  while  and  the  setting  sun  was  down  behind 
the  hills,  and  all  the  sky  was  darkening  into  night. 
Far  over  the  common,  and  purple  as  a  king's  raiment, 
rose  Fuji  San.  Grand  and  lonely  he  stood  between 
dark  earth  and  darkening  sky  ;  far  off  on  the  edge  of  the 
world,  and  all  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  evening  wrapt 
him  round. 


98  THE  ASCENT 

Gently  fell  the  twilight  on  lake  and  hill.  The  grey 
spaces  of  the  common  stretched  more  vast  and  wide. 
The  night  was  coming  fast. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  blackness  of  the  waters  opened 
as  the  deep  abyss.  Behind,  the  horror  of  the  spell- 
bound wood  waited  wide-eyed.  Sweeping  onwards  in 
the  twilight  the  indistinctness  of  the  common  passed 
out  of  sight,  the  pathless  hills  closed  round  me. 

Then  the  spell  of  the  ghostly  wood  reached  out  to 
clutch.  I  looked  towards  the  light.  .  .  .  Dim  as 
Life's  hope  it  lay,  far  off  beyond  the  horizon,  while  all 
the  blackness  of  the  lake  and  hill  surrounded  me. 

I  strained  my  eyes  across  the  indistinctness,  and 
from  that  far-off  heaven  a  lofty  Presence  leaned. 

It  was  the  Great  God  Fuji. 


Ill 

EPILOGUE 

THE  blue  sea  lies  sleeping1  warm  and  still  ;  the  sky, 
another  sea,  sleeps  too ;  only  the  green  headlands  stand- 
ing- between  blue  and  blue  watch,  their  feet  in  the 
water.  And  the  heat  is  the  heat  of  a  summer's  noon. 

So  still  the  sea,  so  quiet  the  sky,  so  calm  the  earth 
that  the  soft  breath  of  the  sleeping  ocean  comes 
as  a  rippling  sigh  towards  the  land,  while  the  blue  sea 
above  floats  lazy. 

From  their  low  hiHl  Tesshuji's  forsaken  Gods  look 
out.  The  temple  walls  are  bare,  its  altars  dumb,  and 
the  grass-grown  court  has  shod  even  silence  with  a 
velvet  shoe.  Dreaming,  the  Gods  sit  undisturbed,  and 
the  hush  of  the  noonday's  heat  is  deepened. 

It  is  long  since  the  clang  of  the  praying-bell  over- 
head called  them  to  listen.  Still  they  sit,  and  look. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  at  the  still  Gods' 
feet,  I,  too,  sit  and  look. 

Over  the  sleeping  sea,  blue  and  still,  beyond  the 
watching  headlands,  out  into  the  liquid  sky  above, 
where  in  utter  majesty  great  Fuji  rises  one  sheer  line 
of  beauty  in  the  blue.  The  rounded  curve  of  his 
snow-crest  shimmers  white  as  a  sun-caught  sail,  and 
the  long  slope  of  his  perfect  form  is  a  deep  blue  line 
on  blue.  Fuji  rises  as  a  tower,  he  floats  in  that  limpid 


ioo  EPILOGUE 

sea  above  a  mist-clad  iceberg.  And  the  glimmer  of 
his  snow-crest  is  a  shining  crown  of  glory  in  the  sky. 
So  real,  so  simple,  so  beautiful.  Just  a  crescent  of 
white  snow  floating  thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the 
world,  and  two  long  lines  of  blue  sloping  gently  down- 
wards, outwards  to  the  earth.  So  simple,  so  beautiful, 
is  it  real  ? 

A  faint  stir  in  the  sleeping  sea  and  I  drop  my  eyes 
to  the  blue  below. 

Beauty,  said  the  Greeks,  was  born  of  the  waves  and 
the  foam.  Once  in  that  clear  sea  above,  a  great  blue 
wave  came  leaping  with  a  crest  of  foam.  It  was 
Beauty's  self,  all-perfect,  and  they  called  it  Fujiyama. 
Beauty  content  to  be  but  beauty. 

Tesshuji's  Gods  look  out  over  the  sea,  beyond  the 
green  headlands  into  the  blue.  They  dream  undis- 
turbed. They  have  looked  so  long. 

The  noonday  heat  has  spread  the  land  with  a  quiver- 
ing haze  of  blue.  It  sleeps.  The  softly  breathing  sea 
sleeps  too.  No  prayer  has  roused  the  Gods,  they  too 
are  sleeping. 

The  whole  world,  says  the  Scriptures,  is  but  a  dream 
of  the  great  Lord  Buddha.  Tesshuji's  Gods  are  dream- 
ing, and  Fuji  is. 

Dream  Gods  for  ever. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 


"  All  that  is  superfluous  is  displeasing  to  God  and  Nature  ; 
all  that  is  displeasing  to  God  and  Nature  is  bad." 

DANTE,  "  De  Monarchia,"  bk.  i.  chap.  xiv. 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT 

THE  kuruma  running  quickly  through  the  narrow 
opening  in  the  high  bamboo  fence  curved  into  a  tiny 
garden  set  with  dark  green  shrubs,  and  stopped 
abruptly. 

In  front  of  us,  where  a  square  recess  broke  the  long 
line  of  wooden  wall,  a  pile  of  gheta  lay  heaped  on  a 
grey  stone  block.  At  the  sound  of  our  coming  the 
wooden  wall  opened,  and  a  Japanese  in  kimono  and 
hakama  stood  bowing  before  us.  He  came  with  pairs 
of  soft  woolly  night-socks  to  cover  English  feet,  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  narrow  knee-high  platform  of 
polished  black  wood,  we  took  off  our  boots.  Two 
giant  curb-stones  at  right  angles  made  a  solitary  step 
to  reach  the  platform,  and  leaving  our  leather  boots, 
looking  caricatures  of  feet  among  the  wooden  sandals, 
we  followed  the  waiting  kimono  along  the  three-foot- 
wide  platform. 

Round  the  corner  of  the  square  recess,  and  shut  off 
from  the  tiny  courtyard  by  a  thick  screen  of  fence  and 
shrubs,  was  a  white  garden,  sunny  and  still,  where, 
under  a  pale  blue  sky,  the  tall  shadows  of  the  trees  fell 
black  across  the  pure  white  snow.  Sliding  back  the 
paper-pan ed  wall  the  waiting  kimono  bowed  us  to 
enter. 


104  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  said  our  friend  the  professor, 
his  familiar  face  looking  strangely  unfamiliar  from  out 
the  wide-sleeved  silken  kimono  and  pleated  silken 
skirts  of  his  hakama,  as  he  laughingly  bowed  us  a 
Japanese  welcome. 

The  first  sensation  on  coming  into  that  low  matted 
room,  bare  of  all  furniture,  was  one  of  intense  awkward- 
ness, all  one's  limbs  seemed  to  have  swollen  to  ungainly 
proportions,  and  to  have  grown  correspondingly  wooden 
and  jerky.  In  a  flash  I  had  slipped  back  to  a  child's 
years,  and  was  lying  in  my  little  iron  bedstead  in  the 
dark,  the  haunting  terror  of  the  unknown  upon  me,  as 
I  stealthily  pinched  a  mountainous  leg  with  a  hand 
twelve  feet  thick,  and  trembled  to  feel  the  bedstead 
giving  way  beneath  me.  That  old  sensation  of  un- 
accountable largeness,  of  bursting  one's  surroundings, 
stayed  as  the  unreal  background  to  my  mind  until  the 
paper-paned  walls  closed  behind  me  again. 

"If  you  would  like  a  chair,  there  are  just  two — " 
began  the  professor. 

But  we  had  come  to  be  really  Japanese,  and  Japanese 
we  intended  to  remain  at  all  costs.  So,  getting  gingerly 
down  on  our  knees  on  the  square  cushions  that  lay  on 
the  matted  floor,  we  tried  unsuccessfully  to  sit  on  our 
heels  with  the  same  grace  as  little  Miss  Hayashi  oppo- 
site. There  she  sat,  demure,  serene,  and,  above  all, 
supremely  graceful  all  through  lunch,  while  we,  like 
chestnuts  on  hot  bricks,  hopped  from  knee  to  knee, 
bobbed  up  and  down,  tucked  our  legs  under  us  like 
Turks,  or  bunchwise  like  children,  leaned  on  one  arm, 
then  on  the  other,  enduring  untold  horrors  of  pins  and 
needles  as  we  became  more  intimately  acquainted  with 
our  own  anatomy  than  we  had  ever  done  in  all  the  pre- 
vious years  of  our  existence.  And  my  admiration  of 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT  105 

Miss  Hayashi  grew  as  she  sat  there,  one  line  of  pure 
grace  from  the  curves  of  her  slender  neck,  rising  from 
the  folds  of  mauve  and  white,  to  the  thick  wadded  hem 
of  her  kimono. 

As  I  looked  I  grew  more  and  more  conscious  that 
the  dress  and  the  room  were  one,  each  the  necessary 
complement  of  the  other,  the  right  frame  for  the  right 
picture,  and  the  right  picture  in  the  right  frame. 

"  The  soul  of  Japan,"  they  say,  "  is  the  sword  of  the 
samurai."  "Then  the  soul  of  the  uchi"  I  thought,  "is 
the  kimono  of  the  housewife." 

The  simplicity  of  the  straight-falling  lines,  the 
perfection  of  the  embroidery  on  the  innermost  of  the 
folds  around  the  neck,  the  richness  of  the  obi  at 
the  waist,  there  was  the  same  severity  of  design  with 
richness  of  decoration  which  characterised  the  room, 
where  two  paper-paned  walls,  one  of  sliding  wood  and 
the  fourth  stained  a  subdued  brown,  enclosed  the  bare 
matted  space.  Against  the  one  solid  wall  was  built  a 
slightly  raised  platform  of  polished  black  wood,  forming 
with  the  two  low  pillars  of  wood  a  wide  recess,  the 
tokonoma.  Within  the  tokonoma  hung  a  long  silken 
scroll  where  pale  storks  flew  across  the  moon,  a  kake- 
mono of  price.  On  the  black  wood  of  the  platform, 
which  was  raised  but  a  few  inches  from  the  ground, 
were  set  the  two  swords  of  the  samurai,  a  bronze  horse 
of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  in  the  corner  some  long 
branches  of  white  plum-blossom  in  a  vase.  In  these 
four  objects  (as  in  the  obi  and  the  embroidery  of  the 
neck-folds)  lay  the  entire  decoration  of  the  room.  And 
looking,  one  realised  that  great  truth,  almost  unknown 
to  us,  but  a  truism  in  Japan — the  artistic  value  of  space. 
In  a  European  drawing-room  you  often  cannot  see  one 
ornament  for  its  fellows  :  here  the  bronze  horse  and 


106  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

the  kakemono  held  the  eyes  ;  one  looked,  and  one  saw ; 
their  beauty  filled  the  soul;  next  week,  next  month, 
they  will  go  back  to  the  store-house,  and  others  will 
take  their  place.  I  could  never  forget  the  curved  lines 
of  those  two  swords  against  the  polished  black  floor 
under  the  white  fragrance  of  the  plum-blossoms,  any 
more  than  I  could  forget  the  soft  half-moon  curves  of 
Miss  Hayashi's  kimono,  white  below  mauve,  as  she 
glided  over  the  matted  floor. 

Our  lunch,  we  had  come  to  lunch,  opened  with  tea, 
pale  amber  tea  in  little  round  bowls  on  bronze  stands, 
and  sugar  chrysanthemums,  rice-paste  storks  and 
dolphins,  cakes  and  sweets  as  perfect  in  design  and 
colouring  as  though  they  were  intended  to  last  for  ever. 
A  rosy-cheeked  maid,  who  bumped  her  head  so  vigor- 
ously on  the  floor  that  I  thought  she  must  get  a  head- 
ache, presented  the  tea,  a  bump  for  each  guest  and 
three  as  a  salutation,  while  Miss  Hayashi,  folding 
squares  of  white  paper  in  double  triangles  with  one 
sweep  of  her  hand,  delicately  heaped  them  full  of  sugar 
flowers  and  fishes,  and  passed  them  round,  one  to  each 
of  us. 

Then  came  a  long  pause,  while  we  asked  all  the 
questions  that  occurred  to  us  about  kimono  and  hakama, 
and  swords  and  etiquette  ;  and  then  our  lunch,  a  whole 
lacquered  trayful  of  bowls  for  each  one  of  us,  with  all 
the  courses  served  together,  and  all  irretrievably  and, 
to  us,  inexplicably  mixed.  I  pass  the  hot  soup  in  a 
lacquered  bowl,  and  the  hot  rice  in  a  china  one,  but 
the  rest — a  golden  bream  on  a  pale  blue  plate  set 
round  with  oranges  in  jelly  ;  slices  of  pink  raw  fish,  and 
a  design  in  brown  seaweed  and  green  roots  ;  a  deep 
bowl  of  pale  yellow  custard,  its  surface  ruffled  with 
silver  fishes,  oriental  whitebait,  and  its  depths  filled 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT  107 

with  bamboo  shoots  and  lily  bulbs  and  other  surprises  ; 
and  one  dish,  a  triumph  of  design  and  colour,  where  an 
oval  slab  of  pounded  fish,  white  as  snow,  rested  against 
a  green  mound  of  preserved  chestnuts,  while  in  front, 
arranged  in  a  curving  crescent  like  the  tail  of  a  comet, 
were  purple  roots,  brown  ginger,  and  slices  of  a  red 
radish.  And  all  this  you  eat  as  you  please,  a  bit  here, 
and  a  bit  there,  now  a  drink  of  salt  soup,  then  a  mouth- 
ful of  sweet  chestnut ;  custard,  vegetables,  fish,  sweets, 
with  relays  of  rice  for  bread,  and  sakt  for  wine,  paper 
napkins,  and  withal  two  penholders  to  eat  with,  and 
your  Japanese  dinner  is  complete. 

Having  tried  everything  with  the  greatest  persever- 
ance, and  wriggled  our  chopsticks  until  our  hands  were 
as  tired  as  our  toes,  we  gave  in  and  rested  from  our 
labours.  The  little  maid,  rosier  than  ever,  removed 
the  trays  of  food,  and  brought  in  bowls  of  oranges  and 
dried  persimmon. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  rustling  of  screens,  and 
a  dear,  little  old  lady  with  shaven  eyebrows  and 
blackened  teeth  slid  into  the  room,  and  instantly  went 
down  on  her  knees,  and  putting  out  her  hands  bowed 
her  head  right  down  on  to  them. 

"This  is  my  aunt,"  said  the  professor,  "a  real  old- 
fashioned  woman — there  are  not  many  left  nowadays 
— who  blackens  her  teeth  and  shaves  her  eyebrows." 

The  little  old  lady  laughed,  and  made  many  polite 
speeches,  asking  after  our  "  honourable  healths  "  and 
our  "august  appetites."  At  every  word  she  made 
another  bow,  until  I  felt  as  if  I  really  must  get  down 
on  my  knees  and  hit  my  forehead  against  the  ground 
as  well.  Luckily  the  professor,  after  a  moment's  con- 
sultation, suggested  we  should  see  the  house,  and  we 
all  got  up.  The  little  old  lady  was  on  her  feet  in  a 


io8  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

twinkling,  but  our  half-dead  limbs  sent  pins  and  needles 
up  our  legs,  as  we  stumbled  on  to  them  and  awkwardly 
walked  away. 

The  sliding  paper  wall  of  our  room  hid  another 
absolutely  bare,  no  tokonoma  here,  only  a  poem  painted 
on  a  long  narrow  board  fastened  against  the  door-post, 
and  in  the  further  wall,  shut  oft"  by  sliding  screens,  a 
large  cupboard,  full  of  the  household  linen,  which  means 
the  silk-wadded  quilts  or  futon,  on  and  under  which 
one  sleeps.  Sliding  aside  the  door-panel  we  found 
ourselves  on  another  three-foot-wide  platform,  looking 
out  through  more  paper-paned  walls  into  another 
garden.  This  house  was  just  a  long  series  of  rooms 
with  a  platform  and  a  garden  on  each  side,  and  a  little 
square  bunch  of  rooms  at  one  end.  In  one  of  these 
we  cuddled  down  under  a  silk  quilt  thrown  over  a  square 
hole  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  felt  the  heat  coming 
up  from  the  glowing  charcoal  sunk  in  a  sort  of  pit 
beneath  the  floor. 

Then  we  peeped  into  the  bath-room,  containing  a 
high  wooden  wash-tub  with  a  stove-pipe  running  down 
one  end.  The  wash-tub  is  filled  with  cold  water,  and 
lighted  charcoal  put  down  the  stove-pipe,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  water  is  hot,  and  you  get  in,  and  the  longer 
you  stay  the  hotter  grows  the  water,  until  having  boiled 
yourself  in  the  approved  Japanese  way  you  step  out 
and  wipe  yourself  dry  with  a  yard  of  white  cotton 
adorned  with  blue  storks. 

Then  we  invaded  the  kitchen,  bare  of  everything 
like  the  other  rooms,  and  with  only  a  two-fold  brazier 
to  cook  over ;  one  brazier  has  permanently  fixed  above 
it  a  coppered  wooden  tub,  dedicated  to  rice-boiling,  the 
other  brazier  cooked  everything  else.  That  was  all. 
Wooden  pots,  pans  and  dippers  were  hung  up  inside 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT  109 

the  sliding  cupboards,  or  were  washing  in  the  yard 
outside.  A  tiny  shrine,  like  a  mantelshelf  over  the 
sliding  door,  held  minute  gods  in  a  dim  light ;  a  paper- 
framed  bamboo  lantern,  like  an  afternoon-tea  cake-table, 
with  shelves  between  the  legs  for  plates,  stood  in  a 
corner.  This  is  the  andon,  and  inside  the  paper  panes 
a  floating  wick  in  a  saucer  of  oil  burns  all  night. 

Our  advent  into  these  regions  was  attended  with 
much  excitement  punctuated  with  peals  of  laughter, 
it  striking  the  dear  old  lady  as  irresistibly  funny,  that  it 
was  all  funny  to  us. 

In  the  midst  of  our  hilarity  came  the  summons  of 
the  kurumaya,  and  out  we  had  to  go,  take  our  boots 
from  the  friendly  company  of  the  wooden  gheta,  and 
laden  with  mysterious  boxes  neatly  tied  with  red  and 
white  strings,  and  bunches  of  plum-blossom,  say  stiff 
English  "  Good-byes,"  while  the  little  old  lady,  the 
rosy-cheeked  maid,  and  the  rest  of  the  household 
bowed  us  graceful  Japanese  sayonara  and  mata 
irasshai  (Come  again). 

The  kuruma  curved  out  through  the  tiny  snow- 
covered  garden  set  with  dark  shrubs,  the  paper-paned 
walls  shut  with  a  soft  thud ;  the  picture  was  gone,  but 
the  memory  of  it  will  remain  with  me  always. 


II 

IN  A  CLOISONNE  FACTORY 

NAGOYA  is  a  manufacturing  town  with  a  quarter  of  a 
million  of  inhabitants.  It  is  full  of  porcelain  and  fan 
factories,  cloisonn6  works  and  cotton  mills.  It  is  the 
centre  of  the  celebrated  potteries  of  Seto,  and  is 
famous  for  its  embroideries  and  its  silks.  It  is  bigger 
than  Nottingham  or  Hull,  and  is  almost  as  large  as 
Dublin.  Nagoya  is  both  Staffordshire  and  Bradford 
—and  yet  a  city  clean  and  still.  A  town  of  sunny 
streets  and  pure  fresh  air,  whose  sky  is  blue  and  clear, 
whose  trees  are  green.  Its  250,000  inhabitants  are 
mostly  factory  hands — and  there  is  neither  dirt  nor 
din.  The  golden  dolphins  on  its  castle's  roof  are 
three  hundred  years  old,  and  they  glittor  in  the  sun- 
shine like  new-fired  gold. 

On  the  edge  of  the  growing  rice-fields  the  porcelain 
factory  lies.  Its  doors  are  open  to  the  sun  ;  and  in  the 
corner  of  the  low,  white  room,  where  the  workmen  sit 
cross-legged  like  Buddhas,  each  beside  his  potter's 
wheel,  a  yellow  vase  of  purple  iris  stands. 

The  room  is  still  and  fresh  and  clean.  The  whirr  of 
the  turning  wheel  is  soft  as  the  drowsing  of  a  bee. 
There  is  no  hurry  as  there  is  no  idleness.  And  each 
worker,  as  he  moulds  his  clay,  looks  towards  the  purple 
iris  in  the  yellow  vase. 


IN  A  CLOISONNE  FACTORY  in 

The  cloisonn^  works  are  built  in  the  heart  of  the 
city,  in  the  middle  of  a  busy  street,  where  blue-clad 
coolies  continually  load  and  unload  the  wide  coster- 
barrows  which  are  the  waggons  of  Japan.  The  hum 
of  working  life  is  in  the  air,  and  the  wide  road  which 
stretches  without  division  of  pavement  across  from  side 
to  side,  is  thronged.  Business  men  in  grey  kimono 
and  foreign  hats  go  out  and  in  ;  the  loaded  barrows 
drawn  by  the  blue-clad  coolies  pass  up  and  down  ; 
fast-running  kurumaya  steer  in  and  out  among  the 
foot-passengers  and  the  traffic.  And  the  occasional 
collision  is  followed  by  mutual  bows  and  polite  Gomen 
nasai  ("I  beg  your  honourable  pardon  "),  on  the  part 
of  either  coolie  or  kurumaya. 

Nagoya  factories  and  cotton  mills  are  hard  at  work. 

The  gateway  of  the  cloisonne  works  leads  down  a 
wooden  passage  into  a  tiny  court,  a  garden  set  round 
with  the  workshops  of  the  factory.  And  such  a  garden. 
It  is  not  larger  than  the  front  lawn  of  a  suburban  villa, 
but  the  skill  of  a  Japanese  gardener  has  planted  a  whole 
mountain  side  with  forests  of  pine  and  bamboo,  has 
spanned  with  an  arching  bridge  the  stone-grey  stream 
at  the  mountain's  foot.  From  inside  the  tiny  matted 
rooms,  no  bigger  than  bathing-boxes,  which  shut  in 
three  sides  of  the  garden,  the  illusion  is  complete. 
And  the  shade  and  coolness  of  the  real  trees  and  water, 
of  the  imaginary  forest  and  stream,  brings  a  sense  of 
calmness  and  repose,  of  quiet  peace  and  beauty,  to  all 
the  many  workers  of  the  factory.  It  is  a  living  land- 
scape growing  unspoiled  in  the  heart  of  a  workshop  in 
the  centre  of  a  manufacturing  city. 

Each  on  his  mat  in  the  clean,  bare,  matted  rooms  the 
workmen  sit,  the  rice-paper  shoji  pushed  open  to  the 
mountain  stream,  and  the  forest  of  pine  and  bamboo. 


H2  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

In  the  first  room  sit  workers  outlining  the  design  on 
the  bare  metal  vase  with  metal  wires,  silver  wires  on 
silver  vases,  copper  wires  on  copper  vases.  And 
each  design  is  different,  and  many  of  the  men  are 
old.  In  the  second  room  the  bare  metal  vases  are 
getting  a  coat  of  coloured  paste,  and  now  the  design 
stands  out  rough  as  a  cave-man's  drawing.  Here  the 
workers  are  younger,  while  boys  fill  in  the  body  of  the 
vase.  In  the  third  and  fourth  rooms  the  matted  floor 
at  the  back  is  replaced  by  a  large  hearthstone,  and  a 
round  earthen  oven  ;  in  this  the  vases  are  baked,  passed 
back  to  the  men  and  boys  to  recoat  with  the  coloured 
paste,  and  then  rebaked,  recoated  and  rebaked  many 
times,  until  at  last  the  vase  is  handed  over  to  the 
workers  in  the  last  rooms.  It  has  lost  all  trace  of 
design  by  now  ;  the  metal  wires  are  no  longer  visible  ; 
the  colours  have  bubbled  over  in  all  directions,  the 
vase  is  an  unmeaning  mosaic  of  a  thousand  shades. 
Then  the  workmen,  sitting  on  their  heels  on  the  kneel- 
ing-cushions  in  their  clean,  bare,  matted  rooms,  tiny  as 
bathing-boxes,  polish,  polish,  polish,  sometimes  for  a 
whole  year,  until  the  worker's  hand  wears  down  the 
hard  smooth  surface  and  the  design  shows  through 
clean  and  true  once  more.  The  workmen  here  are  grey 
and  old. 

But  the  oldest  of  all  sat  by  himself  in  a  little  room 
just  opposite  the  arching  bridge  which  crossed  the 
mountain  stream.  He  wore  a  pair  of  quaint  horn 
spectacles,  and  his  face  was  the  face  of  an  Eastern 
sage.  He  sat  with  his  tools  before  him  fixing  silver 
wires  on  to  a  silver  vase,  with  a  certainty  and  a 
rapidity  beyond  his  fellows  ;  and  all  that  is  most  beauti- 
ful and  most  difficult  in  the  cloisonn6  works  of 
Nagoya  comes  from  his  hands.  The  old  man  pushed 


IN  A  CLOISONNE  FACTORY  113 

back  his  horn  spectacles  as  I  stopped  before  the  open 
shoji,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  the  still  picture  of  the 
garden  with  a  smile. 

I,  too,  turned  to  look  at  the  row  of  tiny  paper  rooms 
stretching  out  like  arms  on  either  hand,  at  the  living 
landscape  lying  in  their  midst,  at  the  blue  sky  above, 
and  at  the  old  face  beneath  the  horn  spectacles.  I 
did  not  wonder  at  the  peace  which  lay  upon  it,  nor  at 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  finished  vase  standing  on 
the  matting  beside  him.  For  the  garden  was  still  as  a 
cloister,  though  the  cloister  was  a  workshop  for  cloisonne 
ware  in  the  manufacturing  town  of  Nagoya. 


H 


Ill 

FLOWER  ARRANGEMENT 

WE  sat  opposite  each  other  on  the  matting,  and  she 
laughed.  The  polite,  audible  smile  of  the  Japanese. 
All  around  us  lay  cut  branches  of  fir ;  and  on  the 
long  wooden  footstool  they  call  a  table  stood  a 
shallow  bronze  dish  and  a  wonderful  cleft  stick  of 
bamboo. 

She  was  a  little  bent  old  lady,  with  the  courtly 
politeness  of  a  thousand  Grandisons  refined  to  a 
subtle  essence,  and  she  gave  lessons  in  flower  arrange- 
ment. The  close-cropped  grey  hair  gathered  into  a 
slide  behind  told  its  own  tale  of  widowhood,  and  the 
withered  careworn  face  its  story  of  work  and  want. 

The  shoji  were  shut,  and  the  light  through  the 
rice-paper  panes  sent  a  warmed  white  light  into 
the  room  that  knew  no  colour,  a  light  as  though 
one  sat  inside  a  luminous  mist,  or  in  the  heart  of  the 
plum-blossoms.  A  passionless,  lifeless  light  which  was 
simply  light. 

And  the  little  old  lady  laughed  again. 

"  There  is  much  to  learn,"  I  said,  stopping  to  watch 
her  bending  the  warmed  fir  branches  over  the  hibachi 
always  to  the  exact  curve,  never  too  near  or  too  far, 
and  mine  snapped  at  the  first  touch. 

She  handed  me  another  branch  in  place  of  the  one 


FLOWER  ARRANGEMENT  115 

I  had  broken,  and  watched  while  I  wedged  it  into  the 
cleft  bamboo  stick  with  little  chips  of  wood. 

"  Very  much,"  she  said.  "  It  takes  three  years  of 
learning  for  the  pupil  and  seven  for  the  teacher.  And 
the  Ijin  San  has  had  four  lessons." 

The  fifth  and  last  branch  being  successfully  wedged 
into  line,  I  got  on  to  my  knees  to  admire  the  effect, 
while  Arabella,  from  her  camp-stool  in  the  corner — she 
considered  it  lowering  to  sit  on  the  floor — bridled. 

"  Oh,  the  Japanese ,"  she  said  ;  "but  any  European 
could  learn  in  half  a  dozen  lessons." 

The  little  old  lady  bowed,  letting  her  forehead  almost 
touch  the  ground,  as  she  sat  on  her  heels  on  the  kneel- 
ing-cushion. 

"  The   august    stranger "    she   began,    when    I 

interrupted. 

The  contemplation  of  my  five  branches  of  fir,  two 
curving  to  the  left  and  three  to  the  right,  had  not  filled 
me  with  any  satisfaction.  They  wobbled.  All  their 
curves  were  wrong,  and  the  five  stems,  instead  of  being 
hidden  one  behind  the  other,  so  that  the  illusion  of  a 
single  branch  growing  out  of  the  bronze  dish  was  created 
and  kept,  were  all  distinctly  and  decidedly  visible. 

"  It  doesn't  look  a  bit  right,"  I  said  ;  "  but  what  is 
the  matter?" 

The  task  of  sticking  five  branches  of  fir,  already 
bent  to  the  proscribed  curves  for  me,  into  a  cleft  stick 
had  not  seemed  difficult,  especially  with  three  lessons 
behind  me,  and  I  had  worked  hard  and  been  very 
confident  that  morning. 

With  a  thousand  apologies  the  little  old  lady  pulled 
the  bronze  dish  towards  her,  while  Arabella  cleared  her 
throat. 

"  In  Europe,"  she  said,  in  the  tone  of  voice  adapted 


n6  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

to  a  kindergarten  class — her  Japanese  voice,  "  we  do 
not  learn  such  a  simple  thing,  we  do  it  naturally. 
Every  European  woman  can  arrange  flowers,  and 
they  are  flowers  "  (with  a  glance  at  the  fir  branches  in 
the  little  old  lady's  hand — she  was  busy  correcting) 
"  not  trees." 

The  little  old  lady  was  putting  back  the  five  fir 
branches  into  the  cleft  stick  with  the  deftest  of  deft 
fingers.  Arabella  unclasped  the  brooch  at  her  neck 
and  pulled  out  what  she  called  a  "nosegay."  A 
bamboo  vase,  just  a  piece  of  the  stem  hollowed  out,  in 
which  the  fir  had  come  from  the  florist  that  morning, 
lay  on  the  floor.  She  picked  it  up. 

"  It  should  be  of  glass,"  she  said  forgivingly,  "  but 
I  will  make  it  do." 

And  then  with  her  own  hand  she  proceeded  to 
arrange  the  Yokohama  nosegay  in  the  slender  bamboo 
stem.  There  was  a  bit  of  spiraea,  one  fat  red  rose, 
and  some  miscellaneous  leaves,  which  Arabella 
referred  to  grandiloquently  as  "  green."  These 
she  crammed  tightly  into  the  bamboo  stem,  and  then 
placed  it,  with  a  "  who-shall-deny-me "  air,  upon  the 
table. 

I  looked  at  it.  No,  it  was  not  a  good  specimen 
even  of  Western  flower  arrangement,  but  in  how 
many  buttonholes,  on  how  many  tables,  had  I  seen 
something  like  it. 

Flower  arrangement  is  taught  in  the  schools  in 
Japan,  and  every  Japanese  girl  learns.  If  she  did  not, 
she  would  not  "arrange"  anymore  than  we  should 
paint  or  play. 

The  little  old  lady  had  finished,  and  she  pushed  the 
bronze  dish  along  the  table  beside  the  bamboo  vase. 
Then,  with  many  compliments  and  much  bowing,  she 


FLOWER  ARRANGEMENT  117 

thanked  the  Ijin  San  for  her  "  august  kindness"  and  her 
"  honourable  condescension."  And  the  smooth  phrases 
ran  on  and  on,  while  I  sat  back  on  my  heels  and  looked. 

East  and  West,  they  stood  there  before  me.  At  the 
best,  what  we  aimed  at  was  a  scheme  of  colour,  and  at 
our  worst  no  scheme  at  all.  And  what  they  strove 
after  was  line,  whether  in  fir  branches  or  lily  leaves, 
in  plum-blossom  or  iris  flowers,  line,  and  a  coherent 
whole.  Each  branch,  each  twig,  each  flower,  nay,  each 
curve  of  the  branch,  each  petal  of  the  flower,  each  leaf 
of  the  twig,  were  parts,  essential  parts  of  the  whole ; 
for  in  Japan  they  draw  with  flowers  and  fir  branches 
as  we  only  draw  for  "  design."  And  line  is  beyond 
colour  as  sculpture  is  beyond  painting. 

The  sun  through  the  walls  of  rice-paned  shoji  spread 
a  warmed  white  light  through  the  room,  a  limpid, 
liquid  light  in  which  there  was  no  shadow. 

The  little  old  lady  had  been  busy  tidying  up.  The 
room  was  one  clear  sheet  of  pale  yellow  matting.  On 
the  low  empty  tokonoma  stood  the  bronze  dish  and  its 
pure  line  drawing  in  fir.  Arabella  was  offering  the 
bamboo  vase  and  its  mixed  contents  "as  a  model," 
and  the  little  old  lady  bowed  to  the  ground. 

Once  more  I  looked  at  the  bronze  vase  and  the  pure 
outlines  of  the  fir  branches,  at  the  bare  room  perfectly 
proportioned,  at  the  rice-paned  shoji,  and  the  snow- 
flake  whiteness  of  that  light  which  knew  no  colour 
and  no  shadow  struck  on  my  consciousness. 

I  think  I  understood.  Colour,  as  colour,  in  that 
luminous,  shadowless  room,  whose  beauty  was  its  line 
and  its  proportion,  would  have  been  not  colour  but  a 
blot.  Outside  the  rice-paned  shoji  lay  life  and  colour 
enough.  Here  was  but  light  and  line. 

Arabella  was  removing  the  white  night-socks  from 


n8  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

her  boots,  she  always  refused  to  take  them  off,  on 
the  veranda.  The  little  old  lady,  down  on  her  knees 
with  her  forehead  to  the  ground,  was  saying  sweet 
Japanese  sayonara. 

I    looked    back    one     last     time — and    Arabella's 
nosegay  vanished. 


IV 
GOD'S  MESSENGER 

THE  first  fresh  heat  of  summer  is  here,  and  outside  the 
city  the  rice-fields  spread  in  quivering  pools  of  green. 
It  is  the  month  of  the  Iris,  Hana-shobu,  and  along  the 
raised  causeway,  between  the  fields,  the  miniature 
hansoms,  drawn  each  by  the  bent  dark  figure  of  the 
kurumaya,  silhouette  against  the  blue  sky. 

You  pay  as  much  as  three  sen  (three  farthings)  to 
enter  an  Iris  garden,  and  they  are  an  hour's  'ricksha  ride 
from  the  city,  so  that  the/e<fe  is  select.  In  the  covered 
court  of  the  entrance  the  kuruma  are  stabled  in  long 
lines  under  a  pale  yellow  roof  of  mats,  while  the  kuru- 
maya, their  black  mushroom  hats  on  their  knees,  sit  on 
the  slender  shafts  and  smoke  their  pipes — three  whiffs 
from  the  metal  thimble  in  the  bamboo  stem,  and 
then  the  sharp  tink,  tink,  as  the  ash  is  knocked  out 
against  the  shaft.  Inside  the  garden  the  blue  tunic  of 
the  coolie  is  absent,  three  farthings  and  the  long 
kuruma  ride  proving  prohibitive  ;  but  the  grey  kimono 
of  the  classes,  Tokyo  shopkeepers  for  the  most  part, 
is  everywhere.  The  gardens  are  large  and  full,  but 
in  no  sense  crowded,  for  the  Japanese,  by  the  very 
polish  of  their  politeness,  contrive  to  create  a  sense  of 
space  and  repose  around  them  even  in  a  crowd. 
But  the  gardens  are  full,  and  the  deadened  clack  of 


izo  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

the  wooden  gheta  on  the  earthen  pathway,  as  the  little 
musmd  carry  the  "  honourable  tea  "  and  the  "  honour- 
able cakes "  to  the  mat-roofed  summer-houses,  is 
incessant. 

We  do  not  sit  on  our  heels  on  the  flat  cushions  on 
the  low  matted  table,  under  the  bamboo  roofs  ;  we  sit 
on  the  cushions,  with  our  feet  on  the  ground,  and  the 
little  waitress  laughs,  her  polished  black  hair  shining 
like  a  metal  mirror  in  the  sunshine.  It  is  so  ridiculous 
to  see  the  Ijin  San  sitting  on  the  tables  with  their 
legs  hanging  uncomfortably  down  in  front  of  them, 
when  all  the  world  agrees  it  is  much  more  natural  to 
sit  on  your  heels  with  the  cleft  toes  of  each  little  white 
tabi  sticking  up  behind  like  rabbit's  ears.  The  idea 
of  getting  cramp  in  such  a  comfortable  position  makes 
little  O  Haru's  brown  eyes  open  very  wide  indeed.  I 
believe  she  revolves  the  idea,  inside  that  metal-polished 
head  of  hers,  that  the  Ijin  Sans  legs  are  not  made 
aright,  or  why  do  they  hide  them  so  ?  And  surely  the 
civilized  boot  could  only  have  been  invented  by  people 
without  toes  ? 

The  open  summer-houses,  behind  the  bamboo  bushes, 
or  on  the  tops  of  the  miniature  hills,  are  full  of  family 
parties,  with  children  in  all  stages  of  age  and  coiffure, 
from  the  shaven  baby  heads  and  the  stiff  horsehair 
ribbon  bunches  of  the  children,  up  through  the  flat 
fronts  and  the  first  freehand  designs  of  the  schoolgirls, 
to  the  black  cockscomb  fronts  and  the  elaborate 
polished  rolls  of  the  grown-up  daughters.  And  they 
are  all  content  to  sit  in  the  sunshine,  drink  tea,  and 
look  at  the  flowers.  They  do  not  want  to  be  for 
ever  restlessly  doing  something,  not  even  the  children. 

In  the  summer-house  over  the  way  a  party  of 
bachelors,  students  from  the  University  perhaps,  are 


GOD'S  MESSENGER  121 

also  drinking  tea  and  smoking  cigarettes  ;  one  of  them 
is  writing  a  poem.  And  a  bourgeois  Sabbath  peace  is 
over  the  land. 

The  tap  of  the  tiny  tea  bowl  on  the  lacquered  tray, 
the  deadened  clack  of  the  musmes  gheta  on  the  path- 
way, is  hushed,  for  I  have  left  the  summer-house,  and 
am  standing  close  down  by  the  river  of  flowers. 

Iris,  the  messenger  between  Gods  and  men,  said 
the  old  Greek  legend,  Iris,  Hana-shobu.  And  surely 
this  swaying  river  of  lavender-blue  flowers,  floating  out 
from  the  fleckless  blue  of  the  summer's  sky,  on  into 
the  young  green  of  the  rice-fields,  is  a  living  message 
from  the  Gods.  A  message  of  beauty  and  peace,  and 
of  the  holiness  that  springs  from  these.  A  message 
which  this  cultured,  courtly,  beauty-loving  people  alone 
know  how  to  create — and  how  to  read.  For  many 
generations  have  lived  and  died,  tenderly  caring  for 
God's  Messengers,  before  these  flowers  learned  to 
unfold  their  petals  in  a  hundred  ways,  and  wear  a 
thousand  hues  from  pink  to  purple,  from  blue  to  grey, 
from  grey  to  black  or  to  the  purest  white. 

The  river  of  exquisite  blossom  flows  on,  straight  out 
from  the  fleckless  blue,  on  into  the  delicate  green, 
bearing  God's  message  of  beauty  to  man.  And  these 
who  see  it  know  how  to  read. 


V 
THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

IT  is  usual  in  judging  the  art  of  a  nation  to  consider 
solely  the  art  of  the  artists  and  never  the  art  of  the 
people.  The  first  is  naturally  of  greater  importance; 
it  affords  moreover  an  easy  method  of  comparison  and 
enables  art  critics  to  register  the  high-water  mark  of  a 
country's  art,  and  this  being  found,  the  question  is 
considered  settled  and  the  nation  judged  accordingly. 
We  say  the  French  are  artistic  and  think  promptly  of 
Corot,  Meissonier,  or  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  not  of  the 
people  of  France.  But  the  art  of  a  nation,  always 
something  less,  is  often  something  very  different  from 
the  art  of  its  artists,  and  though  the  artists'  art  will  give 
you  the  high-water  mark,  it  does  not  and  it  cannot 
give  the  general  art  level  of  the  people.  The  English 
nation  produced  the  greatest  dramatist  who  ever  lived, 
and  several  fine  comedians,  yet  the  level  of  the  nation's 
dramatic  instinct  is  ackowledged  to  be  far  below  that  of 
the  French.  If  we  wish  to  get  a  true  opinion  of  French 
and  English  dramatic  feeling  we  must  study  something 
more  and  something  other  than  the  dramatists.  For  it 
is  not  the  presence  or  the  absence  of  a  certain  number 
of  celebrated  men,  or  even  the  greater  or  the  lesser 
value  of  their  wo-ks,  which  necessarily  makes  a  whole 
nation  dramatic  or  artistic,  but  it  is  the  general  level  of 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  123 

the  dramatic  or  artistic  feeling  in  the  average  indi- 
vidual of  that  nation.  That  a  truly  dramatic  or 
artistic  nation  has  more  chance  of  producing  a  greater 
number  of  dramatists  or  artists  is  certain,  the  condi- 
tions under  which  they  would  work  being  so  much 
more  favourable,  but  to  consider  no  one  but  the  artist 
and  nothing  but  his  art,  and  then  to  transfer  the 
judgment  on  the  artist's  art  to  the  whole  nation,  is 
surely  a  confusion  of  ideas.  It  is  a  confusion  to  which 
art  seems  particularly  susceptible.  For  most  people, 
in  England  any  way,  seem  to  regard  art  as  comprising 
only  expensive  objects  suitable  for  exhibition  in 
museums,  and  not  as  an  integral  part  of  every  article 
used  in  daily  life.  Museum  art  is  the  product  of  a 
nation's  artists,  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  rich  and  the 
cultured,  but  the  art  of  a  people  is  as  wide  as  its  life,  it 
touches  everything  and  is  for  the  joy  and  the  pleasure 
of  all  men. 

Artists'  art  is  an  end  in  itself,  its  whole  reason  for 
existence  is  to  create  beauty,  but  the  art  of  a  people 
is  not  an  end,  but  a  means.  The  problem  before  it  is 
very  different  and  really  more  complicated,  for  it  is  to 
add  beauty  to  mere  utility,  and  by  force  of  art  to  create 
art  in  objects  whose  raison  d'etre  is  usefulness.  And 
the  greater  the  number  of  useful  objects  made  beauti- 
ful, and  the  more  beautiful  the  useful  objects,  and  the 
further  removed  from  beauty  and  the  more  sunk  in 
mere  utility  the  useful  object  is,  so  much  greater  will 
be  the  people's  art. 

To  add  beauty  to  mere  utility,  art  may  be  said  to 
use  three  ways.  It  does  it 

(1)  Directly,  by  moulding  the  shape  (the  material  of 
useful  objects  being  already  determined)  ; 

(2)  Indirectly,  by  decoration  ;  and 


124  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

(3)  Extra-directly,  by  arrangement. 

And  if  art  be  truly  in  a  people,  even  the  most  ugly 
and  stubborn  of  useful  objects  will,  by  one  of  these 
three  methods,  be  made  beautiful. 

I  suppose  that  any  one  who  has  ever  seen  a  rice- 
field  will  allow  that  for  at  least  some  six  months  in  the 
year  it  is  one  of  the  ugliest  objects  in  the  world.  Made 
of  liquid  mud,  it  lies  for  half  the  year  a  slimy,  greasy 
black  pond  shut  in  by  low  mud  walls.  On  its  oozy 
surface  gather  unwholesome  growths  that  shine  with 
metallic  reflections,  while  the  manure,  in  Japan  mostly 
human,  decomposes  in  the  thick  mud.  There  is  nothing, 
I  suppose,  much  uglier,  nothing  more  useful,  and  its 
ugliness  is  the  condition  of  its  utility.  The  Japanese 
cannot  change  the  thick  black  ooze,  they  cannot 
change  the  low  mud  walls  which  embank  the  slimy 
pools.  These,  with  all  their  ugly  consequences,  are 
fixed  and  determined.  But  the  art  of  the  Japanese 
people  has  yet  rendered  the  rice-fields  beautiful.  They 
change  the  shape.  Those  embanking  walls  of  mud 
are  moulded  as  a  potter  moulds  his  clay.  A  series  of 
dead  square  fields  I  have  never  seen.  Two,  three, 
four,  five,  six,  even  eight-sided  rice-fields  can  be  found 
in  Japan,  and  often  the  curves  of  the  mud  wall  itself 
are  graceful  as  the  lines  of  a  Greek  vase. 

Beneath  the  temple  of  Tesshuji,  which  looks  towards 
the  wonder  of  Fujiyama,  with  its  two  pure  lines  of 
exquisite  grace,  is  a  great  fertile  plain,  a  plain  of  in- 
numerable rice-fields,  one  of  the  richest  in  the  country. 
When  I  stood  on  the  steps  of  that  deserted  temple  and 
looked  down,  the  fields  were  all  black  and  naked,  and 
yet  the  plain  was  neither  ugly  nor  monotonous,  for  the 
peasants  had  curved  their  rice- fields  into  exquisite  lines, 
and  not  two  were  alike. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  125 

A  wall  has  certainly  more  possibilites  than  a  rice- 
field,  but  our  modern  walls,  the  high  brick  atrocity  of 
a  prison  or  an  embankment,  is  not  usually  beautiful. 
We  make  spasmodic  attempts  to  beautify  their  monot- 
onous ugliness  with  creepers  or  other  coverings.  That 
is,  we  do  not  beautify  the  wall,  we  take  something  less 
ugly  and  conceal  it.  Now  the  Japanese  beautify  the 
wall.  (We  are  only  considering  here  walls  of  mere 
utility,  where  all  decoration  or  ornamentation  is  out 
of  the  question.)  Except  for  the  brick  walls  of  the 
foreign  buildings,  walls  in  Japan  are  made  of  hewn 
stone  usually  shaped  like  pyramids  and  hammered  base 
outwards  into  a  bank  of  earth.  In  a  country  whose 
architecture,  from  the  most  glorious  of  its  temples  to 
the  humblest  of  its  houses,  is  all  of  wood,  a  clumsiness, 
a  gaucherie  in  its  stonework  might  be  well  excused, 
yet  Japanese  walls  are  a  wonder  to  all  who  see  them, 
for  the  hard  enduring  granite  is  plastic  beneath  their 
fingers.  Their  walls  are  never  dead  straight.  The 
line  always  curves  softly  outward  as  it  touches  the 
ground.  And  this  not  only  in  the  strong  walls  of  the 
daimyos  castle,  or  the  long  moat  walls  of  the  Mikado's 
palace,  but  in  the  embankment  walls  of  the  tiniest 
shrine,  in  the  modern  walls  of  the  modern  temple  of 
the  modern  coaling  port  of  Moji. 

To  beautify  a  useful  object  indirectly  by  decora- 
tion is  a  great  deal  easier,  at  any  rate  the  means 
and  the  possibility  of  doing  so  are  more  apparent ; 
and  yet,  do  we  draw  designs  on  our  sacks,  on  our 
flour  sacks,  grain  sacks,  potato  sacks,  as  they  do  in 
Japan  ? 

For  many  months  I  passed  regularly  every  day 
through  a  street  of  warehouses  where  sacks  of  all  kinds, 
and  containing  all  sorts  of  produce,  were  lying  on  the 


126  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

ground,  were  being  carried  into  the  godown  or  were 
loading  or  unloading.  It  was  some  time  before  it 
really  struck  me  that  the  sacks  were  decorated,  that 
their  blank  yellow  sides  were  made  beautiful  with  a 
design  ;  but  when  I  had  once  realised  it,  I  used  to  look 
carefully  to  see  if  I  could  find  sacks  without.  They 
were  extremely  rare.  The  designs  varied  considerably. 
A  flower,  conventional  or  natural,  a  maple  leaf,  a 
broken  branch  of  plum-  or  cherry-blossom,  the  delicate 
outline  of  the  bamboo  in  a  thousand  different  shapes, 
were  the  most  common,  but  there  were  others,  birds, 
geometrical  patterns,  rice-ears,  Fujiyama.  These 
designs  were  with  true  decorative  feeling  in  one  corner, 
rarely  in  the  exact  centre,  and  admirably  proportioned 
to  the  size  of  the  sack.  They  were  mostly  drawn  in, 
in  soft  blues  — the  commonest  colour  in  the  Far  East — 
sometimes  in  a  pale  but  very  beautiful  green  ;  colours 
which,  on  the  unbleached  cotton  or  pale  yellow  matting 
of  the  sack,  made  complete  harmonies. 

But  a  sack,  whatever  its  business  in  life,  is  at  least 
an  article  of  considerable  duration,  it  is  not  made  to  be 
used  and  thrown  away  the  next  moment  like  the  paper 
wrapping  of  a  parcel.  Yet  it  is  very  few  parcels  in 
very  few  shops  which  are  not  wrapped  up  in  paper 
whose  monotonous  surface  is  broken  by  just  one  tiny 
design.  The  papers  in  which  piece-silks  are  wrapped, 
the  equivalent  to  those  whitey-brown  covers  which 
drapers  seem  perpetually  doing  up  on  our  counters,  are 
often  really  beautiful  in  both  colour  and  design.  I  do 
not  think  a  Japanese  can  see  a  blank  surface  without 
wanting  to  design  something  on  it,  something  little, 
something  beautiful,  just  to  redeem  it  for  art. 

These  designs  are  to  be  found,  if  one  looks  for  them, 
in  the  most  unexpected  places,  on  the  axle-heads  of 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  127 

your  kuruma  for  instance.  A  casual  and  rather 
dilapidated  kuruma  in  an  out-of-the-way  town  in 
Japan  had  such  exquisite  flying  storks  beaten  on  to  the 
bronze  metal  of  its  axle-head  that  I  had  to  get  out  and 
look  at  them.  The  kurumaya  was  amused  at  my 
enthusiasm,  and  entered  into  a  detailed  comparison  of 
these  axle-heads  with  all  the  other  axle-heads  of  all 
the  other  kuruma  of  his  acquaintance,  explaining  their 
respective  merits  and  defects.  If  there  is  no  actual 
design  the  metal  is  usually  beaten  in  such  a  way  as  to 
form  an  irregular  pattern. 

When  a  Japanese  cannot  mould  the  shape  of  an 
object,  when  he  cannot  redeem  it  by  a  design, 
when  in  fact  he  has  no  control  over  its  creation 
at  all,  but  it  is  placed  in  his  hands  as  it  is,  finished, 
he  will  still  contrive  to  add  beauty  to  it  merely  by 
arrangement.  I  first  noticed  this  on  board  the  steamer 
going  out,  where  the  Japanese  "boy"  arranged  the 
extra  blanket  on  the  berth  in  a  new  design  each  day. 
He  folded  it  into  lotus  leaves  and  chrysanthemums, 
into  half-opened  fans  and  half-shut  buds.  He  had  one 
wonderful  arrangement  which,  being  patriotic,  was  more 
often  repeated  than  the  rest.  The  blankets  of  the 
steamship  company  had,  instead  of  the  usual  stripes  at 
top  and  bottom,  just  two  thick  wavy  lines  of  deep  red 
— the  steamer's  flag  was  two  wavy  red  lines  on  a  white 
ground ;  by  some  wonderful  twist  of  his  fingers  the 
"  boy  "  would  fold  that  blanket  into  the  rising  sun,  with 
the  four  red  lines  coming  out  of  it  like  blood-red  rays. 
It  sounds  difficult,  but  he  did  it  so  perfectly  that  I 
recognised  the  flag  of  Japan  the  moment  I  saw  it.  Nor 
was  he  exceptional ;  the  other  "boys  "  on  board  were 
just  as  artistic,  all  the  other  cabins,  for  in  the  course 
of  the  voyage  I  entered  most  of  them,  were  equally 


128  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

decorated,  though  in  most  cases  the  art  had  been  quite 
lost  on  the  occupants. 

A  Japanese  servant,  any  servant,  even  one  in  a 
hotel,  will  set  out  your  hair  brushes,  clothes  brushes, 
nail  scissors,  collar  box,  tooth-powder  tin  on  the  ordi- 
nary average  hotel  dressing-table  and  make  a  design 
of  them.  The  toilette  table  will  somehow  be  a  picture, 
an  artistic  whole.  It  was  an  application  of  art  I  tried 
hard  to  learn,  and  failed  dismally.  After  awhile  I 
could  manage  something  with  the  brushes  ;  but  the  nail 
scissors,  and  more  especially  the  tooth-powder  tin, 
remained,  in  my  hands,  the  unbeautiful  necessary 
articles  which  they  intrinsically  are. 

We  make  in  Europe  various  attempts  at  beautifying 
our  food.  We  put  parsley  on  white  dishes  round  cold 
mutton,  and  paper  frills  on  ham  bones  where  the  pins 
are  dangerous.  On  special  occasions,  such  as  a  Lord 
Mayor's  banquet  or  a  cookery  exhibition,  we  serve 
pastries  as  Tower  Bridges,  or  jellies  as  broken  lutes, 
but  we  do  not  consistently  arrange  our  food  so  that 
each  dish  is  a  colour  scheme  and  an  art  design  of  its 
own. 

I  lunched  once  with  a  professor  in  Tokyo  ;  it  was  a 
modest  meal  in  the  house  of  a  man  badly  off,  accord- 
ing to  our  ideas,  but  when  the  red-lacquered  trays 
came  in,  each  lunch  on  its  own  tray,  and  all  the  courses 
served  together,  I  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  delight. 
The  whole  set  out  in  its  red-lacquered  tray  was  a 
picture,  each  dish  in  itself  was  another.  The  golden 
bream  lay  on  a  pale  blue  dish  ;  an  oval  slab  of  pounded 
fish,  pure  white  in  colour,  rested  against  a  mound  of 
lime-green  chestnuts  ;  in  front  and  lying  in  a  crescent 
curve  were  purple  roots,  brown  ginger,  and  tiny  slices 
of  red  radish.  It  was  simply  a  triumph.  I  have  eaten 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  129 

pinky  brown  soup  in  which  the  curved  peel  of  an 
orange  floated  like  a  golden  dolphin  ;  pale  yellow 
custards,  served  in  delicate  blue  bowls,  whose  surfaces 
were  ruffled  with  silver  fishes ;  white  rice-moulds 
wrapped  in  the  delicate  tendrils  of  a  vine-green  sea- 
weed ;  thin  slices  of  pink  raw  fish,  the  colour  of 
an  uncooked  salmon,  laid  out  on  green  dishes  and 
garnished  with  little  heaps  of  olive  seaweed  shaven 
fine  and  eaten  with  a  burnt-sienna  sauce.  The  very 
hawkers  in  the  streets  serve  their  one-rm  (10  to  a  ^d.) 
sweetmeats  or  their  snow-white  tofu  daintily,  on 
plates  of  appropriate  colour,  artistically  set  out.  The 
rice-paste  biscuits  are  veritable  works  of  art  in  shape 
and  colour.  You  can  eat  almost  every  variety  of 
chrysanthemum,  as  well  as  see  it,  and  the  colouring,  all 
vegetable,  is  almost  as  beautiful. 

We  have,  I  believe,  in  England,  a  profession  called 
"  window-dressing,"  and  in  a  few  cases  this  does  truly 
attain  to  art.  But  with  us  it  always  ends  at  the  windows. 
Enter  the  shop  and,  unless  it  is  a  showroom,  you 
stand  in  the  midst  of  undigested  cargoes  of  goods ; 
and  whose  eye  has  not  been  pained  by  heaped  rolls 
of  stuff  where  a  post-office  red  will  lie,  as  often  as 
not,  on  the  top  of  a  crimson  and  underneath  a 
magenta  ?  That  is  a  thing  which  could  not  happen  in 
Japan  ;  the  eye  of  the  young  man  behind  the  counter 
would  forbid  it. 

I  once  watched  a  whole  consignment  of  silks  being 
put  away  on  shelves  in  a  shop  in  Tokyo.  It  was  the 
European  side  of  the  establishment,  so  that  the  shop 
was  fitted  with  counters,  chairs,  and  the  usual  drapers' 
shelves,  the  silks,  too,  told  the  same  tale  in  their  width 
and  pattern.  It  was  only  a  boy  who  was  putting  them 
away,  sixteen  at  the  outside,  yet  he  did  it  with  a  con- 

i 


i3o  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

scious  choice,  and  when  he  had  finished,  the  silks,  which 
ran  through  the  whole  gamut  of  colour,  harmonised 
delightfully.      But  the  real  Japanese  shops  are  more 
beautiful   still.     To    go   over  the   Mitsui    is  to  walk 
through  a  gallery  of  pictures  in  still  life.     Here  are 
no  heaps  of  undigested  goods,  no  mere  piles  of  articles, 
but  a  definite  and  deliberate  setting  forth  of  certain 
things  which  left  the  impression  that  the  clerks  of  the 
Mitsui  posed  their  silken  goods  as  an  artist  his  model. 
The  Mitsui  is  one  of  the  best  shops  in   Tokyo ;  to 
be  perfectly  fair   compare  it  with    one  of  our  "  art 
salesmen."     But  the  best  of  our  shops  tie   up  their 
parcels  in  whitey-brown  paper  with  tow-coloured  string, 
thinner  or  thicker  according  to  the  weight  of  the  parcel. 
In  the  Mitsui  the  string  is  all  pure  white  or  scarlet-red, 
and  each  parcel  is  tied  with  a  strand  of  both  laid  side 
by  side,  the  heavier  the  parcel  the  greater  the  number 
of  scarlet  and  white  strings,  always  laid  side  by  side, 
until  sometimes  they  make  a  wide  white  line  above  a 
wide  red  one,  kept  evenly  together  by  a  skilful  knot. 
The  ends,  too,  are  not  snapped  off  anyhow  after  tying 
an  ugly  knot,  but  are  cut  slantwise,  to  form  a  V  or  a 
point,  and  even  the  knot  is  beautiful  because  it  is  a 
coherent  whole,  and  not  a  conglomeration  of  successive 
ties. 

So  far,  all  these  things,  rice-fields,  sacks,  and  food, 
with  the  sole  exception  of  the  blankets  and  hair  brushes, 
have  been  exclusively  Japanese,  the  nation  has  evolved 
them  in  itself,  and  by  itself,  and  consequently  in 
comparing  them  with  things  European  it  has  only  been 
possible  to  take  similar  and  not  identical  objects.  But 
since  their  first  contact  with  Europe,  and  more  especially 
during  the  last  thirty  years,  the  Japanese  have  borrowed 
a  certain  number  of  articles  directly  from  the  West. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  131 

They  have  borrowed  beer-glasses,  windows,  and  wall- 
papers. And  from  the  Dutch,  three-hundred  years  ago, 
they  took  pipes  and  tobacco  pouches.  A  light  kind  of 
lager  beer  is  rapidly  becoming  a  universal  drink  in 
Japan.  There  are  several  native  breweries,  and  those 
places  where  beer  has  not  penetrated  are  considered 
hopelessly  "  old-fashioned."  After  the  beer  came  the 
beer-glasses,  and  though  the  art  of  the  nation  has  not 
been  long  at  work  upon  them,  they  are  already  very 
different  from  their  European  models.  It  must  be 
remembered,  too,  that  glass  was  unknown  to  the 
Japanese  until  it  was  introduced  from  the  West.  The 
first  thing  which  the  nation  did  when  it  set  to  work 
upon  beer-glasses  was  to  reduce  the  size,  otherwise 
they  would  have  been  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  rest 
of  the  dinner  service,  and  so  the  beer-glasses  of  Japan 
are  small  as  dolls'  tumblers  in  which,  if  you  are  lucky, 
you  will  find  three  sips  of  beer  under  the  egg-white 
froth. 

If  this  example  illustrates  the  love  of  the  little, 
generally  supposed  to  be  the  chief  characteristic  of  the 
Japanese,  the  case  of  the  windows  will  show  their 
dislike  to  unredeemed  blank  space,  and  at  the  same 
time  their  knowledge  of  the  artistic  value  of  space  in 
design.  So  long  as  windows  only  existed  in  houses 
built  in  the  style  called  "  foreign,"  they  remained 
severely  Western,  just  another  European  object  like 
the  railway  or  the  telegraph  set  up  in  the  land,  but 
when  they  began  to  be  introduced  into  Japanese  houses, 
then  the  art  of  the  nation  set  to  work  upon  them. 
They  are  still  rare,  but  in  a  few  private  houses  and  in 
some  of  the  best  native  hotels  windows  exist.  They 
do  not  open.  They  were  not  introduced  to  supply 
ventilation,  an  unnecessary  consideration  in  a  Japanese 


1 32  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

house,  which  is  all  draughts,  nor  really  for  light,  the 
paper  panes  of  the  shoji  admitting  light  readily ; 
but  just  in  order  that  the  person  inside  might  have 
another  picture  before  his  eyes — the  picture  of  what  lies 
without.  The  window  then  is  not  a  glass  fitting  to  an 
oblong  hole  knocked  into  a  wall,  but  a  broad  band  of 
glass  running  round  the  whole  length  of  the  shoji  at 
just  that  distance  from  the  ground  which  will  allow  any- 
one sitting  on  his  heels  on  the  floor  to  see  through 
comfortably.  A  pattern  on  this  glass  window  would 
have  interfered  with  the  view,  and  the  window  was 
there  expressly  for  the  view.  So  the  glass  is  empty 
and  clear,  but  not  blank.  Then  it  would  have  been 
merely  useful,  and  the  Japanese  never  stop  at  utility ; 
it  had  to  be  made  beautiful,  and  so  the  pure  perfect 
curves  of  Fuji  were  traced  upon  the  glass.  The  design 
was  quite  small  and  only  occupied  one  end,  but  the 
area  of  the  glass  was  no  longer  blank  space,  but  the 
demanded  setting  to  a  picture. 

There  is  no  place  in  a  Japanese  house  for  wall- 
papers, but  the  number  of  foreign-built  hotels  and 
houses  has  created  a  certain  demand  for  them.  Also 
the  Japanese  are  beginning  to  export  wall-papers 
abroad.  As  the  patterns  are  mostly  supplied  to  them 
direct  from  European  firms,  or  copied  from  models 
sent  them  on  order,  they  have  to  please  their  market, 
and  yet  I  have  seen  a  wall-paper  in  a  hotel  bedroom 
where  two  golden  dragons  drawn  back  to  back  studded 
a  white  ground.  It  was  a  perfectly  conventional 
pattern,  and  at  first  there  seemed  nothing  remarkable 
about  it.  The  tiny  dragons,  looking  something  like  a 
fleur  de  lys,  occurred  at  six-inch  intervals.  Then  it 
dawned  gradually,  the  intervals  were  not  regular,  they 
differed  both  lengthways  and  width  ways.  It  took 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  133 

indeed  ten  feet  of  wall  before  the  pattern  absolutely 
repeated  itself. 

But  windows,  wall-papers  and  beer-glasses  are  new 
growths,  only  just  engrafted  on  to  the  life  of  the  people. 
They  are  still  thought  of  as  something  foreign,  whereas 
pipes  and  pouches,  although  coming  originally  from  the 
West,  have  in  the  course  of  three  hundred  years  become 
thoroughly  absorbed  and  transformed  by  the  genius  of 
the  nation.  To  judge  from  the  old  pictures  the  first 
pipes  were  three  or  four  feet  long,  with  a  bowl  to  corre- 
spond, in  size  and  capacity  suggestive  of  those  long 
wooden  pipes  with  china  bowls  smoked  by  the  tradi- 
tional Dutchman.  At  the  same  time  we  in  the  West 
have  also  been  evolving  our  pipes  and  pouches,  as  the 
art  and  the  convenience  of  Europe  demanded,  and 
to-day  the  British  navvy  has  arrived  at  his  clay  and  the 
city  clerk  at  his  briarwood,  and  both  at  the  gutta-percha 
pouch.  When  bent  on  "  something  tasty,"  they  may 
indulge  in  skeleton -head  pipes  with  carbuncle  eyes,  or 
magenta  plush  pouches  embroidered  in  apple-green 
silk.  In  Japan  the  navvy  (or  his  wife,  for  smoking  is 
equally  common  to  both  sexes)  uses  a  doll's  pipe  made 
of  a  slender  bamboo  reed,  whose  bowl  and  mouthpiece 
are  of  metal,  beautifully  finished,  and  holding  just  three 
whiffs  of  their  fine-cut  red-brown  tobacco.  The  pouch 
is  made  of  leather,  fastening  like  a  purse,  and  the  metal 
snap  is  always  fashioned  into  a  design,  however  simple 
—two  birds  flying,  a  fish,  a  grasshopper.  There  is  also 
a  leather  case  to  keep  the  pipe  in,  like  an  open  spec- 
tacle-case, and  the  two  are  fastened  together  by  means 
of  a  twisted  silken  cord.  The  pipe-case  is  stuck  into 
the  obi,  and  the  pouch  hangs  over.  It  was  to  allow  of 
the  free  hang  of  the  pouch,  and  also  as  a  finish  to  the 
silken  cord,  that  the  netsuk'e  was  invented,  and  some  of 


134  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

the  most  beautiful  of  museum  art  objects  produced. 
But  netsuke  are  not  for  the  navvy  or  the  people,  or  if 
they  do  occur  in  the  cheap  pouches  of  the  poorer 
classes  they  are  nothing  more  than  a  rounded  bead  only 
valuable  artistically  as  a  spot  of  colour.  The  pouches, 
the  pipes  and  the  pipe-cases  are  genuinely  beautiful 
in  shape,  make  and  proportion.  They  also  have  the 
merit,  rare  in  gutta-percha,  of  endurance.  A  pouch 
bought  four  years  ago  by  a  careless  European,  and  in 
use  ever  since,  shows  to-day  no  sign  of  wear.  It  is 
not  cracking  at  the  seams,  and  the  snap  is  as  firm  as 
ever.  A  smoker,  I  believe,  has  no  particular  hanker- 
ing after  the  Japanese  pipe  with  its  metal  bowl  and 
mouthpiece,  but  anybody  with  a  sense  of  form  must 
enjoy  the  delicate  refinement  of  even  the  commonest 
native  pipe  with  the  gentle  yellow  of  its  bamboo  stem, 
the  finish  of  the  metal  mouthpiece,  and  the  perfect 
shape  of  its  acorn  bowl. 

These  are,  after  all,  only  a  few  examples,  sufficient 
perhaps  for  the  purpose,  but  any  one  who  has  lived  in 
Japan  and  looked  at  the  common  objects  of  daily  life 
used,  owned  and  produced  by  the  people  would  be  able 
to  multiply  them  almost  indefinitely. 

In  thinking  them  over  perhaps  the  thing  which 
occurs  most  frequently  to  the  mind  is  the  simplicity  of 
the  means  used.  The  whole  artistic  effect  of  the  rice- 
fields  consists  in  the  variation  of  their  shape,  in  the 
curve  of  the  mud  wall  ;  in  the  shops  and  in  the  food 
simply  in  the  right  choice  of  given  articles.  But 
through  all  Japanese  art,  even  the  most  elaborate, 
this  same  simplicity  of  means  is  noticeable.  I  have 
seen  the  most  elaborate  imperial  brocade  which  pro- 
duced an  effect  of  running  water,  and  it  was  done 
by  simply  throwing  over  the  original  blue  brocade 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  135 

a  rough  mesh  network  of  brown  silk.  Every  garden 
in  Japan  is  an  illustration  of  this  point,  for  a  Japanese 
in  a  dull  back  yard  as  big  as  a  bath-towel  will,  by  the 
judicious  planting  of  two  small  palm-trees,  the  setting 
up  of  a  stone  lantern,  and  the  careful  making  of  a 
puddle,  convey  to  the  mind  of  those  who  look  the 
greenness  and  the  coolness  of  a  dense  forest,  the 
freshness  of  clear  water,  and  the  delight  of  hills  and 
dales.  I  have  seen  it  often  in  wayside  inns,  in  shops, 
in  big  towns,  in  factories,  everywhere. 

Exactly  the  same  thing  is  true  of  their  flower 
arrangement.  Putting  aside  all  other  points  of  beauty 
and  charm,  a  Japanese  with  three  chrysanthemums, 
with  one  branch  of  fir,  will  produce  a  whole  which  we 
should  only  think  of  attempting  with  a  shilling's-worth 
of  flowers  and  two  penny  bunches  of  "green." 

On  the  characteristics  of  Japanese  art  European 
writers  have  varied  greatly,  but  in  considering  only  the 
art  of  the  people  there  are  perhaps  fewer  difficulties 
or  differences,  and  we  come,  I  think,  to  four — value  of 
space,  desire  for  line,  sobriety  of  taste,  and  thorough- 
ness of  workmanship.  I  do  not  include  the  dislike  of 
symmetry,  because  a  want  can  hardly  be  called  a 
characteristic.  Symmetry  is  more  properly  a  charac- 
teristic of  our  art.  The  Japanese  dislike  it,  they 
make  nothing  in  pairs,  and  if  certain  things,  such  as 
candlesticks,  are  required  in  twos,  each  one,  though 
resembling  the  other  in  the  main  idea,  always  differs 
from  it  in  detail. 

The  sense  of  the  artistic  value  of  space  shows  itself 
everywhere,  in  every  form  of  decoration  and  design, 
as  well  as  in  every  object  of  art.  In  Japan  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  overcrowding.  It  is  one  small  leaf 
which  decorates  the  sheet  of  paper  wrapping.  It  is 


136  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

the  scarcity  of  articles  in  the  Mitsui  which  accounts 
for  nine-tenths  of  the  artistic  effect  of  that  draper's 
interior.  If  ever  a  nation  has  thoroughly  and  aesthetic- 
ally realised  the  psychological  fact  on  which  much  of 
our  theory  of  backgrounds  is  based,  that  we  only 
really  see  an  object  by  its  outlines,  it  is  the  Japanese. 
They  have  worked  out  this  fact  to  its  last  artistic  value. 
In  a  Japanese  room  there  hangs  one  picture  ;  on  the 
raised  and  polished  platform  of  the  tokonoma,  the 
artistic  altar  of  the  room,  there  is  set  one  bronze  or 
porcelain  vase  of  flowers,  one  ornament.  These  are 
changed  as  often  as  the  fortune  or  the  taste  of  their 
owner  permits.  When  a  Japanese  comes  to  Europe 
he  complains  that  our  drawing-rooms,  with  their  dozens 
of  pictures  and  their  scores  of  ornaments,  are  "like 
warehouses";  and  after  this  first  disturbing  feeling 
of  crowd,  when  he  has  lived  in  that  drawing-room  for 
several  months  and  finds  that  the  ornaments  are  never 
changed,  only  perhaps  added  to,  he  complains  then 
of  the  monotony.  For  he  knows  and  has  realised 
another  psychological  fact,  that  it  is  in  the  freshness  of 
observation  that  the  eye  sees  clearest  and  the  brain 
works  best. 

With  the  sense  of  the  supreme  value  of  space  comes 
an  intense  feeling  for  line.  Whether  this  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  climate,  which  is  clear,  and  the 
landscape,  which  is  mountainous,  I  do  not  know ;  but 
compare  the  purity  of  outline  in  the  Italian  painters, 
more  especially  in  the  Tuscan  and  the  Umbrian, 
Botticelli  and  Perugino,  with  the  Netherlands  School, 
Rembrandt  and  Rubens,  where  light  and  shadow,  and 
colour  as  colour,  play  so  great  a  part.  But  whether  it 
is  due  to  the  landscape  or  not,  personally  I  should  be 
inclined  to  attach  a  great  deal  of  importance  to  the 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  137 

artistic  value  of  Fujiyama,  a  mountain  whose  exquisite 
outlines,  visible  from  thirteen  provinces,  have  simply 
permeated  Japanese  art ;  but  landscape  or  no,  the 
desire  for  line  is  a  fact.  The  Japanese  draw  with 
everything ;  with  the  mud  embankments  of  their  rice- 
fields,  with  the  granite  stones  of  their  walls,  with  the 
trees  in  their  gardens,  with  the  flowers  in  their  vases. 
The  whole  essence  of  flower  arrangement  is  not  colour 
mass,  but  line  drawing.  It  is  the  same  with  their 
trees,  the  dwarf  trees  in  their  pots,  or  the  grown  trees 
in  their  gardens.  Both  are  trained  and  educated  to 
produce  a  beautiful  outline,  and  they  succeed.  It  is 
perhaps  interesting  in  this  connection  to  notice  the 
number  of  illustrations  in  Japanese  books  where  the 
trees  are  simply  silhouettes  washed  in  in  Indian  ink  on 
a  blank  background.  We  should  have,  I  think,  a  great 
disinclination  to  treat  our  trees  in  this  way. 

The  feeling  for  line  is  very  strong,  and  it  is  perhaps 
perpetuated  by  the  daily  use  of  those  dead  pictures,  the 
Chinese  ideographs.  Several  hundred  years  ago  the 
Japanese  invented  the  phonetic  syllabaries  called 
kana.  It  is  interesting  from  an  artistic  point  of  view 
to  compare  them  with  our  alphabet.  A  very  short 
contemplation  of  the  alphabet  as  used  in  our  books 
and  handwriting  will  show  that  it  is  mainly  composed 
of  straight  lines,  often  parallel,  with  a  certain  admixture 
of  circles.  Now,  although  a  straight  line  is  the  nearest 
way  between  two  points,  it  is  rarely  or  never  the  most 
beautiful;  did  not  some  one  once  say,  "The  line  of 
beauty  is  a  curve"  ?  I  do  not  think  any  one's  artistic 
soul  has  received  much  nourishment  from  a  contem- 
plation of  the  letter  "m,"  three  parallel  lines,  or  "t." 
Compare  them  with  the  corresponding  kana,  and  the 
difference  will  be  felt  at  once.  Indeed,  we  are  all 


138  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

unconsciously  well  aware  of  the  artistic  failing  of  our 
ordinary  alphabet,  for  directly  we  carve  or  write  an 
inscription,  or  introduce  it  in  any  way  into  something 
which  claims  to  be  an  object  of  art,  then  we  discard  it 
altogether,  and  either  fall  back  on  the  Gothic  letters, 
or  adopt  some  kind  of  fancy  alphabet.  As  the  average 
Japanese  child  is  taught  writing  four  hours  a  week  for 
the  first  three  years,  and  three  hours  for  the  next  two, 
and  as  their  writing  is  really  painting,  their  feeling  for 
line  has  at  least  a  chance  of  development. 

Of  the  thoroughness  of  Japanese  workmanship  I  do 
not  think  anybody  would  disagree  ;  when  the  wing  of 
the  stork  on  your  rice-bowl  is  finished  inside,  when 
the  chrysanthemum  petals  on  your  wooden  tray  curl 
over  the  edge,  when  the  bottom  of  your  flower  vase 
has  a  design  as  well  as  the  outside,  you  are  convinced 
that  the  Japanese  knew  Ruskin's  dictum  long  before 
he  said  it.  I  have  seen  the  feet  of  a  bronze  statuette, 
the  feet  which  were  entirely  hidden  under  the  folds  of 
the  kimono  from  in  front,  carefully  finished  off  under- 
neath. The  statuette  in  question  cost  50  sen  (i^),  and 
was  sold  by  a  street  hawker.  Nobody  really  sees  the 
designs  on  the  kuruma  axle-heads,  not  unless  they 
look  for  them,  except  perhaps  the  kurumaya  himself, 
when  he  squats  on  the  ground  waiting  for  a  fare  ;  but 
they  give  a  thoroughness  of  finish  to  the  'ricksha  which 
it  would  miss  without. 

Most  people  are  agreed,  I  think,  upon  the  thorough- 
ness of  workmanship,  but  sobriety  of  taste  is  a  more 
disputed  point.  We  are  very  fond  of  talking  of  the 
"gorgeous  colouring  of  the  East,"  and  using  terms 
like  "barbaric  splendour"  and  "oriental  luxury." 
These  terms  may  have  had  some  truth  as  applied  to 
the  art  of  India,  but  because  Japan  is  also  situated  in 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  139 

the  East,  they  do  not  necessarily  apply  to  her.     We 
do  not  sufficiently  realise  over  here  that  there  is  con- 
siderably more  difference  between  China  and  Japan, 
let  alone  India  and  Japan,  than  there  is  between  any 
two  European  countries  whatsoever,  be  the^  Greeks 
or  Dutch,  or  what  you  will ;  that  they  are  not  of  the 
same  race,  nor  do  they  belong  to  the  same  linguistic 
family.     Therefore,  to  transfer  an  adjective  applicable 
to  India  to  Japan,  just  because  both  are  Oriental,  is 
like    applying   an    adjective    suitable    to    the    Turks 
or    the    Laps    to    the    English,   on  the   ground   that 
both   are    European.      This    is,  I    think,    one  source 
of  error ;     the  others  are   more  subtle.       There    is 
first  of  all  the  climate.     Now  a  colour,   any  colour, 
under  a  bright  blue  sky  in  a  dazzling  yellow  sunshine, 
will  always  look  more  subdued  than  that  same  colour 
under  a  grey  sky  and  in  a  cloudy  atmosphere.     This 
is  simply  an   effect  of  contrast.    Therefore,  Japanese 
colouring  must  be  judged  as  it  is  seen  in  Japan,  not  as 
it  may  look  when  transferred  to  England.    And,  again, 
a  study  of  the  actual  colour  itself  will  show  that  the 
Japanese  have  learnt  how  to  make  the  very  brightest 
colours  soft  in  tone.     This  fact  has  been  well  rubbed 
into  me  lately,   for   I  have    tried  both  in    Paris  and 
in    London  to   match  certain  Japanese  stuffs,   or   at 
least   to  find  something  in  the  same  note  of  colour 
which  would  go  with  them.     It  was  quite  impossible. 
All  our  soft  colours,  the  so-called  artistic  shades,  are 
too  dull  in  tone,  while  none  of  our  bright  ones  are  soft 
enough  ;  by  the  side  of  the  Japanese  colours  they  look 
simply  crude.     These  are  all  quite  material  reasons, 
objective  facts,  but  there  is  another  which  only  those 
who  have  stood  and  looked  at  the  glorious  splendour 
of  a  Japanese  temple  such  as  Nikko  or  Shiba,  where 


140  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

the  whole  rainbow  is  resplendent  in  carved  wood  and 
gilded  lacquer,  and  that  is  their  matchless  power  of 
combination  and  of  background.  The  temples  of 
Nikko  or  Shiba  are  both  built  in  the  midst  of  a  wood  ; 
the  dark,  deep,  sober  forms  of  the  giant  pine-trees 
stand  all  around.  This  is  the  setting ;  then  between 
each  gorgeous  gateway  comes  a  still  clear  space  of 
court,  paved  with  quiet  grey  pebbles ;  and  when 
the  glory  culminates  in  the  temple's  interior  the 
building  is  of  unstained,  unpainted  wood,  soft  as 
the  dust-brown  carpet  of  the  beech-leaves  when  the 
sun's  rays  are  level.  But  the  temples,  supreme 
in  their  way  among  all  the  products  of  Japanese 
art,  are  exceptional.  The  average  Japanese  room  is 
colourless,  luminous,  but  practically  colourless.  The 
floor  is  of  the  palest  yellow  matting,  the  one  or  two 
solid  walls  of  the  room  are  washed  in  in  the  softest  of 
bark  browns,  the  wood  of  the  tokonoma  is  dark  and 
polished,  and  the  other  walls  are  shoji,  that  is,  com- 
posed entirely  of  small  panes  of  rice-paper.  Through 
this  paper  the  sunlight  comes  luminous  but  colour- 
less. To  sit  in  that  room  is  like  living  in  the  heart 
of  the  plum-blossom,  or  within  the  petals  of  a  warm 
white  rose. 

In  their  dress  the  Japanese  are  equally  subdued  :  the 
men  wear  mostly  grey  or  dust-coloured  silks,  the 
women  soft  mauves,  blues  and  greys.  It  is  only  the 
children  who  are  dressed  in  bright  colours  and  gay 
patterns.  All  the  working  classes,  both  men  and 
women,  wear  a  dark  indigo  blue.  The  Japanese  wear 
no  jewellery.  Precious  stones  they  have,  exquisite 
mauve  and  purple  amethysts,  crystals  of  blood-red 
splendour  or  soft  and  milky  as  flushing  pearl.  And 
the  rich  man  buys  these,  not  to  wear,  but  to  look  at, 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  141 

as  works  of  art,  as  exquisite  natural  objects.  He 
never  hangs  them  round  his  own  neck,  or  enmeshes 
his  womankind  in  them.  The  Japanese  are,  I  believe, 
the  only  nation  on  the  earth  who  know  and  value 
precious  stones,  and  yet  wear  no  jewellery.  Might 
not  this  be  considered  convincing  evidence  of  their 
essential  sobriety  of  taste  ?  Even  the  landscape, 
though  supremely  beautiful  and  sunny,  is  never  flaunt- 
ing. There  are  too  many  sober  green  pine-trees, 
and  pale,  bewitching  bamboos  for  that.  I  have  never 
seen  anywhere  in  Japan,  in  the  poorest  house,  in  the 
cheapest  shop,  anything  that  was  tawdry  or  even 
"loud,"  except  in  that  part  of  porcelain  and  other 
factories  which  supply  goods,  mostly  from  "  foreign  " 
patterns,  for  the  European  market. 

In  this  enumeration  of  the  characteristics  of  Japanese 
art,  you  will  perhaps  wonder  why  I  have  omitted  the 
very  popular  one  of  their  love  of  the  little,  the  small, 
the  minute.  I  have  left  it  out  simply  because  I  do  not 
believe  it  exists  as  such.  Many  writers  have  ex- 
claimed in  paragraphs  sprinkled  with  interjections  on 
this  passion  for  the  little  which  they  say  the  Japanese 
possess ;  and  they  have  apparently  seen  in  it  nothing 
but  a  blind  unreasoning  prejudice  for  the  something 
small  as  opposed  to  the  something  great.  I  think  this 
opinion  is  mostly  due  to  the  "  little  knowledge  "  of  the 
tourist  or  the  restricted  knowledge  of  the  specialist. 
It  leaves  also  entirely  unexplained  and  inexplicable  the 
Dai  Butsu  of  Kamakura,  a  bronze  statue  of  Buddha, 
fifty  feet  high  and  of  the  most  exquisite  workmanship  ; 
the  Buddhas  of  Kyoto  and  of  Nara ;  the  big  bronze 
bell  of  Kyoto,  the  largest  hanging  bell  in  the  world, 
besides  that  at  Chion-in,  the  second  largest,  and 
at  Nara,  the  third  ;  the  Hongwanji  at  Kyoto,  the 


142  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

walls  of  the  castle  at  Osaka — and  the  battle  of  Mukden. 
A  wider  acquaintance  with  the  Japanese  people  and 
the  realities  of  their  daily  life  will  show,  I  think,  that 
this  so-called  love  of  the  little  is  really  a  highly  culti- 
vated and  acute  sense  of  proportion,  where  it  is  not 
purely  ethical. 

The  Japanese  beer-glass,  you  will  remember,  was 
the  size  of  a  doll's  tumbler.  "  Why  ?  "  "  Oh,  because 
they  have  a  passion  for  little  things  "  is  certainly  the 
easiest  and  most  obvious  answer.  But  follow  that 
glass  to  its  home  on  its  Japanese  dinner  tray,  in  its 
Japanese  room,  and  you  will  see  that  its  littleness  is  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  tray  and  the  room.  Nor  are  the 
rooms  so  small,  but  because  we  insist  on  bringing  our 
encumbering  "  foreign  "  ideas  into  them.  There  is  no 
furniture  in  a  Japanese  room,  no  furniture  of  any  kind 
whatsoever.  Two  kneeling-cushions  and  a  round  box, 
a  brazier,  are  the  only  possible  objects  which  could  come 
under  that  heading,  therefore  the  whole  space  within 
the  four  walls  of  a  room  is  space  for  movement.  If 
a  measurement  were  taken  of  the  actual  feet  of  free 
space  in  many  a  modern  European  drawing-room,  I 
believe  that  it  would  be  found  to  be  something  less 
than  that  in  the  "  tiny  "  Japanese  apartment. 

Another  thing  to  be  borne  in  mind  is  that  life  in 
Japan  is  lived,  not  above  the  floor  on  chairs,  but 
on  the  floor  itself.  Try  living  on  the  floor  and  you 
will  find  the  whole  horizon  of  a  room  opening  out 
in  the  most  astonishing  way.  What  we  call  a  stool, 
for  instance,  represents  the  same  level  as  a  table. 
The  actual  difference  in  the  height  of  the  eyes  sitting 
on  one's  heels  on  a  Japanese  floor  and  on  a  chair  is 
really  between  two  and  three  feet,  while  it  must  also 
be  remembered  that  Japanese  eyes,  belonging  as  they 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  143 

do  to  a  body  shorter  on  the  average  than  our  own, 
come  still  nearer  to  the  ground. 

Thus  a  careful  examination  of  the  things  which  are 
small  in  Japan,  which  they  have  deliberately  chosen  to 
make  small,  copied  smaller  than  the  foreign  originals, 
will  show,  I  think,  that  it  is  due  to  their  acute  sense 
of  fitness  and  proportion.  There  is  also  another 
reason,  which  is  not  artistic  but  ethical. 

The  Japanese  are  a  sober  and  abstemious  race,  a 
race  of  high  culture  and  of  ancient  civilisation.  When 
we  were  running  about  clad  in  the  inadequate  skin, 
gorging  off  half-raw  oxen,  and  drunken  with  seven- 
day  feasts  of  mead,  they  lived  already  under  an  ordered 
and  an  organised  government  with  most,  if  not  all,  of 
the  essentials  of  civilisation.  And  after  all,  is  not 
one  of  the  hall-marks  of  real  civilisation  the  learning 
to  take  "a  little"  instead  of  "a  lot,"  in  extracting 
from  each  atom  the  whole  of  its  use,  enjoyment 
and  pleasure?  Children  and  savages  are  always 
wasteful.  We  do  not  now  try  to  eat  whole  oxen 
or  drink  mead  for  seven  days,  we  have  learnt  to  get  as 
much  if  not  more  pleasure  out  of  one  glass  of  wine 
and  one  slice  of  beef,  and  the  reason  is  that  we  are 
slowly  learning  not  to  gulp.  If  you  watch  the  work- 
ing man  drink  his  beer,  or  the  working  woman  her  tea, 
you  will  see  that  they  usually  gulp  it  down  in  big 
draughts,  imagining,  I  suppose,  that  it  is  sheer  quan- 
tity which  produces  flavour.  They  have  not  yet  learnt 
that  profound  ethical  truth,  expressed  by  the  old 
epicure  when  he  said  approvingly  of  some  young  man 
that  he  "  had  already  learned  to  sip  his  wine  and  not 
to  gulp  it."  The  Japanese  have  learnt  to  sip.  Their 
wine-glasses,  which  are  china  bowls,  hold  perhaps  two 
tablespoonfuls,  their  tea-cups  three,  their  pipes  just 


144  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

three  fleeting  whiffs.  Drunkenness  is  exceedingly 
rare  ;  it  does  exist,  but  with  a  glass  holding  two  table- 
spoonfuls  there  is  time  for  reflection.  It  is  also  more 
economical  than  the  foreign  variety,  the  actual  quantity 
required  to  produce  intoxication  when  taken  in  small 
doses  being,  I  believe,  considerably  less. 

There  is  always  another  side  to  a  people's  art,  a  side 
which  is  frequently  overlooked,  and  that  is  the  art,  not 
in  the  object,  but  in  the  workman.  A  people's  art  will 
show  itself,  not  only  in  the  actual  object  produced,  but 
in  the  life  of  the  producer  and  in  the  conditions  of 
production. 

In  the  cloisonn6  works  of  Nagoya,  an  industrial 
centre  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  inhabitants,  the 
workers  sat  in  peace  and  solitude,  not  a  sound  of  the 
busy  streets  penetrated  to  the  long  series  of  matted 
rooms  where  they  worked.  Each  room  and  each 
workman  looked  towards  a  quiet  garden,  cool  with 
running  water,  and  still  with  the  deep  mystery  of  the 
pines.  In  the  modern  porcelain  factory,  dedicated  to 
the  production  of  goods  for  the  "  foreign "  market, 
the  long  white  room  looked  out  through  open  doors 
upon  the  waving  rice-fields,  and  each  potter's  wheel 
was  turned  to  see  the  branch  of  purple  iris  standing  in 
its  yellow  vase.  There  is  a  cotton  factory  in  Japan 
which  is  a  positive  addition  to  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape. 

Nor  is  it  only  the  big  and  wealthy  workmen  who 
produce  good  art.  Some  of  the  most  beautiful  silver 
enamel-ware  in  Tokyo  was  made  by  a  little  man  who 
owned  the  smallest  and  poorest  of  general  shops,  where 
halfpenny  tooth  brushes  and  farthing  sheets  of  paper 
formed  the  richest  portions  of  his  stock.  All  this  beau- 
tiful silver  enamel-work  was  done  in  the  back  parlour, 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  145 

and  at  no  time  could  he  have  had  more  than  ten  yen  (£1) 
worth  of  such  goods  in  hand.  Yet  he  was  an  artist  to 
the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  the  sheen  and  colour  of  his 
enamelled  silver  lotus  flowerswere  a  joy  to  the  beholder. 

In  Nikko  there  was  a  carpenter  who  made  wooden 
trays  for  the  inhabitants.  His  stall,  the  merest  shanty, 
was  the  littlest  imaginable,  yet  he  carved  me  a  wooden 
box  with  a  design  in  chrysanthemums  which  was 
skilled  artistic  work,  and  even  his  cheap  wooden  trays 
had  the  stamp  of  art.  He  did  them  with  a  penknife, 
and  the  whole  surface  of  the  tray  was  grooved  in 
shallow  curving  lines. 

And  the  worker  himself?  If  there  is  art  in  the 
product  and  in  the  conditions  of  production,  what  of 
the  producer  ?  Is  there  art  in  his  life  and  his  tastes  ? 
Is  there  art  in  the  life  of  the  labourer,  of  the  coolie  and 
the  'ricksha  man  ?  Is  there  art  in  the  daily  life  of  the 
common  people  as  well  as  in  the  things  they  use  ? 

A  man's  tastes  are  known  by  his  pleasures.  When  the 
common  people  of  Tokyo  make  "  Bank  Holiday  "  they 
go  to  see  a  handful  of  pink  cherry-blossoms  against 
the  blue  of  an  April  sky.  They  walk  politely,  looking 
up  at  the  trees,  and  though  the  crowd  is  thick,  endless, 
nobody  pushes  or  fights  or  swears.  No  special 
posse  of  policemen  is  turned  out  to  keep  order. 
Down  the  long  two-mile  avenue  of  cherry-trees  at 
Mukojimathe  crowd  wanders  amiably,  and  the  munici- 
pality of  Tokyo  has  never  thought  to  invent  a  single 
penalty  for  the  destruction  of  young  trees  and  shrubs. 
The  world  stares  contentedly,  drinks  tea,  and  goes 
home  again.  And  this  is  considered  to  be  the  rowdiest 
crowd  at  the  most  popular  resort  on  the  favourite 
"  Bank  Holiday  "  of  the  year. 

The   blossoming  of   all   the   other   flowers,    plum, 


i46  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

peach,  azalea,  peony,  wistaria,  iris,  lotus,  convolvulus, 
maple,  chrysanthemum,  are  equally  visited,  and  adver- 
tised daily  in  the  newspapers.  The  people  of  Japan 
take  few  holidays,  but  those  they  do  take  are  almost 
always  at  the  time  of  the  flower  festivals. 

When  they  can  afford  something  more  expensive 
they  go  to  the  "  Royal  Academy,"  which  opens  its  doors 
twice  in  the  year  for  the  aristocratic  sum  of  3  sen  (f<^.) 
gheta  (wooden  clogs)  and  umbrellas  left  outside,  5  rin 
(10  rin  make  \d.\  The  other  picture  exhibitions, 
not  having  the  status  of  the  Tokyo  "  Royal  Academy," 
are  more  moderate,  averaging  i  to  2  sen  for  ad- 
mission, and  gheta,  free.  The  entrance  to  the  exhibi- 
tions of  bronze,  lacquer,  porcelain  and  other  arts  is 
the  same.  Even  on  the  basis  of  Japanese  incomes, 
where  a  General  earns  ^300  a  year,  the  Headmaster 
of  a  Public  School  £160  and  a  coolie  6d.  a  day,  the 
charges  are  exceedingly  moderate.  And  the  people, 
the  real  working  people,  go.  I  should  be  curious  to 
find  out  how  many  working  men  have  paid  at  the  turn- 
stiles of  Burlington  House. 

Besides  art  exhibitions,  Japanese  workmen  go  to 
the  theatre,  but  this  is  a  taste  they  share  with  many 
other  nations ;  what  is  all  their  own  is  their  love  of 
pilgrimages,  not  only  to  temples  of  religious  repute, 
but  to  places  of  celebrated  beauty.  Fujiyama  is  yearly 
ascended  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pilgrims.  Here 
religion  and  beauty  are  mingled.  For  the  great 
mountain  is  sacred.  So  is  almost  every  spot  in  Japan 
that  is  particularly  beautiful.  As  one  journeys  through 
the  country,  the  traveller  will  always  find  that  the  most 
beautiful  point  of  view,  the  grandest  scene,  the  loveliest 
nook,  has  a  temple,  or  at  least  a  wayside  shrine,  set  up 
by  the  common  people  and  tended  by  them.  There 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  147 

never  was  a  nation  since  the  days  of  Ancient  Greece 
who  so  entirely  believed  that  beauty  is  sacred,  or 
who  so  entirely  disbelieved  that  art  can  be  divorced 
from  ethics.  They  have  the  love  of  beauty  innate 
and  inalienable.  A  man  I  knew  was  once  crossing 
Tokyo  in  a  'ricksha  ;  he  was  a  prosperous,  commercial 
being  with  a  vast  contempt  for  the  "heathen."  It 
was  late  afternoon.  His  kurumaya,  after  looking 
round  at  him  several  times,  suddenly  stopped  short, 
and  waving  his  hand  to  the  west  said  respectfully 
but  firmly : 

"  Honourably  please  to  observe  the  unusual  glory  of 
the  sunset." 

"  And  I  told  him  to  jolly  well  get  on,"  was  the  end  of 
the  story  as  I  heard  it. 

A  favourite  pastime  of  the  'ricksha  men  on  the 
cab-stands  as  they  wait  for  a  fare  is  to  draw  in  the 
dust  of  the  roadway  one  against  the  other.  If  sand 
has  been  spilled  from  a  cart  anywhere  within  reach  the 
whole  'ricksha  stand  migrates  and  has  the  happiest 
time.  I  have  seen  really  good  outlines  of  Fujiyama 
and  of  flying  birds,  or  blossoming  flowers,  all  on  the 
roadways  by  the  'ricksha  stands.  And  whatever  their 
faults,  they  at  least  had  life,  for  the  'ricksha  man  has 
knowledge,  knowledge  based  on  intelligent  observation 
and  on  the  inherited  training  of  his  race. 

In  the  Japanese  language  there  is  a  word,  edaburi, 
which  means  "  the  formation  or  the  arrangement  of  the 
branches  of  a  tree."  Merely  to  possess  such  a  word 
shows  the  long  training  in  art  and  observation  which 
the  nation  must  have  undergone.  But  this  word  is 
not  a  technical  term  used  only  by  artists  and  the 
cultured  classes ;  it  is  a  living,  breathing  expression, 
part  of  the  vocabulary  of  every  Japanese,  even  the 


148  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

Board  School  educated.  Kurumaya  discuss  edaburi 
in  the  streets  of  Tokyo.  Railway  porters  at  wayside 
stations  argue  the  matter  with  the  stationmaster. 
Every  peasant  knows,  understands,  and  talks  of  the 
matter  as  though  he  had  brought  himself  up  on  long 
courses  of  Ruskin.  It  has  often  been  a  subject  of  great 
regret  to  me  that  Ruskin  did  not  know  the  Japanese, 
for  in  them  he  would  have  found  the  living  proof  of 
so  much  of  his  teaching. 

But  the  people  of  Japan  not  only  discuss  edaburi, 
they  write  poetry.  There  is  an  exceedingly  simple 
form  of  poetry  called  hokku.  It  consists  of  only  three 
lines  of  five,  seven,  and  five  syllables,  and  is  written  in 
the  language  of  daily  life.  The  kokku  was  invented  by 
a  man  called  Basho,  for  the  definite  ethical  purpose  of 
cultivating  the  taste  and  improving  the  morals  of  the 
people.  He  believed  in  the  composition  of  poetry  as 
an  ethical  force,  and  he  wished  to  bring  it  from  the 
home  of  the  educated  into  the  lives  of  the  poor.  He 
succeeded.  Not  because  the  hokku  is  a  so  much  easier 
form  of  poetry  than  the  English  couplet,  but  because 
the  people  have  taste,  and  art,  and  civilisation  in  the 
very  cells  of  their  brains.  Every  one  writes  poetry, 
even  the  typical  jinricksha  man,  who  is  to  the  Japanese 
what  the  charbonnier  is  to  the  French  or  the  coster  to 
us.  When  the  kurumaya  and  his  wife  go  to  visit  their 
relations  the  whole  party  amuses  itself  by  composing 
these  tiny  poems.  On  all  occasions  of  joy  and  grief, 
on  birth,  death  and  marriage,  at  the  time  of  each  flower 
festival,  or  of  any  other  happening,  the  people  compose 
poetry.  Literary  composition  has  always  been  incul- 
cated as  the  best  medicine  for  sorrow,  and  as  such  is 
practised  daily. 

This  is  a  little  poem  taken  from  the  diary  of  a  woman 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  149 

who  died  in  Tokyo  a  year  or  two  ago.  She  lived  with 
her  husband,  a  doorkeeper,  on  an  income  of  £i  a 
month,  and  she  was  very  delicate.  She  bore  him  three 
children,  who  all  died  shortly  after  birth  ;  then  the  poor 
mother  died  herself.  Her  diary  came  into  the  posses- 
sion of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  who  translated  it  under  the 
title  of  "  A  Woman's  Tragedy."  This  poem  was 
composed  on  the  death  of  the  third  baby  and  runs  : 

"  Tanoshimi  mo 
Sam6te  haka  nashi. 
Hani  no  yume." 

"  All  my  delight  has  perished,  and  hopeless  I  remain. 
It  was  a  dream,  a  dream  of  spring." 

Here  is  another  poem  which  is  more  typically 
Japanese.  It  was  composed  by  the  same  woman  after 
the  death  of  her  second  baby,  and  runs : 

"  Sami  dare"  ya 
Shimerigachi  naru 
Sod6  no  tamoto  wo." 

"  Oh,  the  month  of  rain  ;  all  things  have  become  damp  ; 
the  ends  of  my  sleeve  are  wet." 

Which  being  interpreted  is  :  "  Oh  !  the  time  of  grief. 
All  things  now  seem  sad.  The  sleeves  of  my  robe 
are  moist  with  tears."  * 

It  is  this  very  allusiveness,  this  saying  of  something 
simple  and  commonplace,  and  hiding  behind  it  a  whole 
meaning  of  intense  emotion,  which  makes  this  poem  so 
typically  Japanese,  for  Japanese  art  is  always  sugges- 
tive, it  always  needs  the  observer  to  bring  his  share  of 
thought  and  mind  to  its  interpretation. 

It  is  interesting  to  speculate  how  much  the  two  most 

*  The  long  sleeve  of  a  Japanese  kimono  is  always  held  before  the 
face  to  hide  emotion. 


150  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

universally  recognised  characteristics  of  the  Japanese, 
politeness  and  cleanliness,  owe  to  their  sense  of  art. 
If  one  looks  into  the  psychology  of  the  race,  one  sees, 
of  course,  that  this  national  trait  of  exquisite  polite- 
ness was  built  up,  or  at  least  assisted,  in  many  ways. 
There  was  that  stern  training  of  the  samurai  which 
taught  eternal,  never-ending  self-control.  There 
is  the  whole  Buddhistic  teaching,  which  is  one  long 
gospel  of  unselfishness  and  kindness.  But  other 
nations  have  had  training  in  self-control,  we  ourselves 
among  the  number — think  for  a  moment  of  the 
Puritans  and  our  public  schools.  And  other  religions 
preach  kindness  and  unselfishness,  our  own  again,  and 
yet  there  is  no  other  nation  so  widely  recognised, 
even  by  the  snappiest  of  tourists  who  ever  wrote  his 
"memoirs,"  as  universally  polite  from  the  Emperor  to 
the  coolie  in  the  streets.  It  is  a  hypothesis  which  I  put 
forward  with  some  hesitation,  because  the  origins  of 
national  psychology  are  not  for  the  amateur,  but  I  do 
think  that  a  certain  stress  is  to  be  laid  upon  this  innate 
and  instinctive,  but  much  cultivated  sense  of  art.  Has 
not  the  politeness  something  to  do  with  that  love  of  a 
beautiful  outline,  that  desire  for  a  perfect  curve  in  the 
relations  between  man  and  man  as  well  as  between 
man's  eye  and  his  drawing?  Is  not,  in  fact,  a  rude 
action  a  something  inartistic  in  the  social  whole,  a  blot 
of  crude  colour  that  jars  ? 

The  whole  of  the  cka-no-yu,  or  tea  ceremony,  one 
of  the  few  Japanese  things  of  which  Europeans 
have  heard  more  or  less  vaguely,  is  an  illustration  in 
point.  The  tea  ceremony,  divested  of  its  subsidiary 
and  attendant  growths,  is  in  essence  nothing  more 
than  the  proper  making  and  the  proper  drinking 
of  a  simple  cup  of  tea.  This,  in  the  course  of 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  151 

centuries,  has  been  elaborated  into  an  imposing  and 
very  complicated  ceremonial.  Nowadays  the  cha-no-yu 
is  regarded  mainly  as  a  useful  reservoir  of  etiquette 
and  politeness,  and  is  taught  as  such.  But  the  whole 
idea  on  which  it  rests  is  that  for  every  given  action 
there  is  always  one,  ami  only  one,  right  and  proper 
attitude,  that  is  to  say,  me  most  graceful.  So  that  the 
curve  of  every  finger  in  the  mere  passing  of  a  tea-cup 
is  the  result  of  careful  thought  and  long  experience. 
Everything  has  to  be  considered,  the  room,  the  person, 
the  relation  of  the  body  to  the  arm,  of  the  arm  to  the 
hand,  of  the  hand  to  the  tea-cup,  the  position  of  th 
person  serving,  and  of  the  person  served,  the  place  ol 
the  tea-cups,  of  the  tea-pot,  and  the  tea-kettle ;  all 
have  been  taken  into  consideration  by  the  tea  cere- 
monialists,  and  the  proper,  the  most  graceful  attitude 
carefully  evolved. 

That  you  may  not  think  politeness  a  matter  of  social 
caste  in  Japan,  I  may  say  that  the  kurumaya  when 
they  run  into  one  another  at  the  corners,  the  coolies 
hauling  carts  when  they  collide,  bow  profoundly 
and  beg  one  another's  pardon. 

And  the  exquisite  cleanliness  ?  Some  o'ne  once  defined 
dirt  as  "matter  out  of  place."  Is  not  much  of  art 
just  the  putting  of  things  in  their  right  places,  in  their 
best  and  most  appropriate  and  consequently  their  most 
beautiful  place  ;  in  the  putting  of  a  thing  in  such  a 
place  that  you  feel  it  never  could  have  been  otherwise. 
As  the  child  said  when  lost  in  admiration  of  his  birth- 
day cake,  "  It's  so  beautiful  I  think  God  must  have 
made  it."  It  is  this  cleanliness,  this  neatness,  which 
the  Japanese  possess,  a  neatness  which  has  passed 
beyond  mere  precision,  passed  on  into  its  essence — 
grace. 


152  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

All  this  may  perhaps  sound  far-fetched  to  English 
ears.  If  we  are  clean  and  polite  it  is  on  sanitary  or  on 
ethical  grounds,  not  for  aesthetic  reasons,  because  "  it  is 
healthy  or  right,"  not  "because  it  is  more  beautiful," 
and  we  make  a  broad  distinction  between  ethics  and 
aesthetics.  In  Japan,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  the  most 
intimate  of  relations  between  them.  The  whole  modern 
controversy  of  "art  for  art's  sake,"  all  the  dearly 
cherished  views  of  French  critics  that  art  has  nothing 
to  do  with  morals,  is  simply  unmeaning  to  them.  You 
might  as  well  say  that  the  sun  had  no  relation  to 
light. 

I  have  already  mentioned  how  the  hokku  form  of 
verse  arose  as  a  moral  influence,  how  literary  com- 
position is  always  recommended  as  the  best  medicine 
for  sorrow  ;  but  what  of  a  nation  whose  gardens  are 
arranged  to  express  an  ethical  abstraction  such  as 
courage,  resignation,  obedience,  or  to  suggest  a  saying 
of  Buddha,  the  Blessed  One  ;  whose  dwarf  trees  are 
not  merely  grown  to  make  a  design,  but  also  to  express 
an  idea  and  suggest  a  reflection  ;  where  every  single 
tree,  and  flower,  and  bird,  and  beast  is  a  moral  symbol 
and  is  commonly  used  as  such  ;  where  a  simple  candle- 
stick of  a  stork  standing  on  a  tortoise  and  holding  the 
stem  of  a  convolvulus  in  its  mouth  is  a  whole  philo- 
sophy :  the  stork,  representing  Life,  standing  upon  the 
tortoise,  Eternity,  and  holding  in  its  mouth  the  Morn- 
ing Glory,  a  flower  whose  brief  life,  only  blooming  for 
the  few  hours  after  dawn,  is  typical  of  mortality,  and 
the  impermanence  of  all  things.  From  Life  based 
upon  Eternity  springs  Mortality,  whose  joys  are  fleet- 
ing. Here  is  the  kernel  of  the  whole  Buddhistic  faith. 
The  impermanence  of  phenomena  and  the  eternity  of 
law,  that  is,  cause  and  effect. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  PEOPLE  153 

Even  such  an  ordinary  art  as  that  of  arranging 
flowers  is  deeply  ethical.  The  whole  of  Chinese 
philosophy  is  bound  up  with  it.  Each  stem  is  known 
by  the  name  of  some  tenet  in  this  philosophy,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  lesson  on  flower  arrangement  the 
teacher  sits  down  and  talks  to  the  class  of  the  under- 
lying ethical  ideas. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  any  art  in  the  world  into 
which  so  much  thought  and  meaning  has  been  poured 
as  into  that  of  the  Japanese.  Every  design,  even  the 
simplest,  even  the  most  stereotyped,  has  behind  it  a 
whole  world  of  symbol,  of  suggestion  which  speaks  to 
the  mind  of  the  beholder  as  the  outlines  to  his  eye. 
And  this  is  the  reason  why  no  design  is  ever  unmean- 
ing, haphazard,  as  it  so  often  is  with  us.  It  is  there 
not  only  because  it  is  beautiful,  but  because  it  is 
appropriate  to  the  place  and  the  occasion,  because  it 
has  some  connection  with  the  object  it  decorates,  with 
the  person  who  gives  or  the  person  who  receives  it, 
with  the  time  and  the  circumstances  of  the  giving. 
Their  art,  in  fact,  regarded  from  the  ethical  point  of  view, 
is  often  a  sort  of  moral  shorthand,  a  very  beautiful, 
finely  wrought  shorthand,  which  men  can  take  away 
and  think  upon. 

And  this  brings  me  to  my  last  point.  John  Adding- 
ton  Symonds,  in  one  of  his  wonderful  essays  on  the 
Italian  Renaissance,  says  that  painting  inevitably  fell 
from  its  high  estate  among  men  because  modern  life 
is  too  complex  to  be  expressed  by  it.  That  just  in  the 
same  way  as  the  Renaissance  required  something  less 
simple  than  the  sculpture  of  the  Greeks  to  translate 
its  thoughts  and  feelings  into  outward  form,  so  we  in 
this  century  cannot  express  our  own  more  subtle  and 
complex  thought  in  terms  of  painting,  and  therefore 


154  THE  ART  OF  THE  NATION 

never  again  can  we  hope  to  rival  the  perfection  of  that 
old  Renaissance  art.  And  he  concludes  by  remarking 
that  it  is  in  music,  more  plastic  and  suggestive,  that  we 
must  seek  our  best  expression.  Now  Japanese  art  is 
not  dead  but  intensely  living,  and  it  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  it  lives,  it  holds  its  place  in  their  life, 
thought  and  culture  just  because  it  has  learnt  to  express 
those  complex  and  subtle  emotions  which  make  up  our 
world  to-day.  And  it  does  it,  not  by  imaging  them 
forth  defined  and  definite  as  our  painting  seeks  to  do, 
but  just  as  our  music  would  by  suggestion. 

To  every  Japanese  painting  a  man  must  bring  his 
own  soul  and  his  own  thoughts,  and  where  he  has  none 
or  little,  then  he  will  turn  away  complacently,  saying, 
"  Here,  there  is  nothing."  For  his  are  not  the  eyes 
to  see  all  the  dim  eternal  problems,  all  the  vistas  of 
unwritten  poetry  which  the  artist  has  but  shadowed 
forth  ;  the  artist  whose  part  is  not  to  portray,  but 
infinitely  to  suggest. 


SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 


"  What  it  is 
That  dwelleth  here 

I  know  not ; 

Yet  my  heart  is  full  of  gratitude, 
And  the  tears  trickle  down." 

SAIGIO. 
"  Japanese  Literature,"  by  W.  G.  Aston. 


THE  MOAT 

IT  is  winter,  and  yet  a  summer  sky  of  clearest  blue, 
faint  and  pure.  A  white  sun  rides  in  the  southern 
sky,  winning  me  to  believe  it  summer  until  the  cold 
northern  wind  lifts  the  edge  of  my  cloak,  and  I  know  it 
winter. 

It  is  warm  here  in  the  corner  of  the  bridge,  full  in 
the  sunlight,  and  I  linger.  The  dark,  still  waters  of 
the  moat  creep  stealthily  along  on  either  side  of  me ; 
in  the  distance  I  can  see  the  rounded  arcli  of  a  bridge, 
so  arched  is  the  span  and  so  white  that  I  could  believe 
the  people  had  stolen  the  young  crescent  of  the  moon 
to  span  their  waters. 

I  lean  on  my  bamboo  parapet  and  look.  The  dark 
still  waters  run  between  brown  stone  walls  all  overhung 
with  the  twisted  limbs  of  the  fir-trees,  such  big  strong 
branches  lying  almost  along  the  ground,  and  twisted 
as  if  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  get  back  to  the  earth 
beneath.  I  watch  the  thick  strong  branches,  soberly 
green,  the  masses  of  foliage  riotously  so,  a  green  line 
and  its  shadow. 

The  stone  banks  of  the  moat  are  unhewn  and 
uncemented,  but  their  surface  is  one  unbroken  line  of 
sober  brown  ;  and  I  look  at  the  long  wave  of  muddy 
finger-marks  traced  by  the  tide's  edge,  and  now  high  up 


158       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

the  wall,  and  drop  my  eyes  to  the  deep  mud-brown  of 
the  waters  below. 

The  bamboc  parapet  grows  hot,  hotter.  I  wonder 
who  laid  those  stones,  and  who  keeps  them  so  free  of 
grass  and  weeds.  On  the  whole  they  are  not  more 
silent  and  solid  than  the  big  limbs  of  the  trees  above. 
Past  the  bridge  in  the  distance  is  an  unkempt  space  of 
yellow  grass,  then  a  tall  red  building  shoots  abruptly 
into  the  sky.  The  small  brown  policeman,  hidden  by 
his  military  cloak  and  sword,  stands  motionless  as  I. 
Am  I  dreaming  that  this  is  a  city  of  a  million  souls  ? 

Blue,  green,  brown,  black  ;  sky,  trees,  stones,  water  ; 
a  white  sun,  a  white  bridge — and  suddenly  the  two 
seem  to  meet  in  a  whirl  of  dust,  my  scale  of  colours 
vanishes  and  with  it  the  dreamy  quiet  and  the  summer 
sun.  A  clatter  of  gheta  on  the  bridge,  two  kuruma 
past  the  policeman,  a  boat  on  the  moat,  the  voice  of 
the  tofu  man  following  his  bell  along  the  road,  the 
shadow  of  the  tall  house  over  the  world — and  I  awake 
to  winter  and  the  town. 


II 

A  RAINY  DAY 

RAIN  ! 

And  the  world  lies  like  an  impressionist  picture 
washed  in  with  white.  Shut  up  in  my  miniature 
hansom,  with  the  apron  up  to  my  eyes  and  the  roof 
down  to  the  brim  of  my  hat,  it  passes  before  me  in 
misty  unreality.  But  for  an  occasional  bob  of  the 
black  mushroom  hat  of  my  kurumaya  as  he  pulls  the 
'ricksha  out  of  a  hole,  I  am  drawn  by  an  invisible 
force. 

It  has  rained  for  a  week,  and  the  streets  are  bogs, 
the  puddles — ponds.  The  wind  drives  the  rain  with  a 
murmured  "ssssk"  against  the  tarpaulin  sides  of  the 
kuruma,  but  in  front  there  is  no  rain,  only  an 
intangible,  shadowy  whiteness  between  the  world 
and  me. 

The  green  bank  of  the  moat,  the  dark  water,  even 
the  fir-trees  whose  green  arms  stretch  down  long 
fingers  into  the  water,  are  uncertain  and  swollen  as  the 
world  to  sleepy  eyes.  Black  kuruma  splash  past  me, 
with  the  large  glass  eye  in  their  aprons  shadowly 
suggestive.  The  coolie  in  his  straw  raincoat,  just  a 
walking  sheaf  finishing  in  two  bare  brown  legs,  plods 
on,  a  golden  figure  against  the  grey.  A  long  string  of 
carts  pass  by  me,  long  narrow  carts  drawn  by  long 


160       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

thin  horses  ;  cart  and  horses  hidden  under  a  structure 
of  yellow  oil-paper,  until  they  look  like  huge  golden 
bats  or  mythical  dragons.  And  with  his  back  to 
the  head  of  the  horse,  a  halter  in  one  hand,  a  yellow 
paper  umbrella  in  the  other,  his  bare  brown  legs  lost 
in  the  mud,  the  walking  sheaf  moves  on. 

All  the  world  to-day  is  four  inches  higher  than  its 
wont ;  and  the  stilt-like gheta  seem  an  uncertain  footing 
for  their  owners.  Bare  to  the  thigh  is  the  kurumaya, 
and  his  brown  legs  look  like  the  statues  of  Greece 
sunned  into  life,  so  perfect  are  their  outlines. 

Down  the  vanishing  road  are  two  pale  yellow 
umbrellas,  gold  on  grey,  and  I  marvel  at  the  beauty  of 
the  colour.  Suddenly  round  the  bend  of  the  street 
comes  a  third — foreign,  black — and  in  a  flash  the  beauty 
goes  ;  a  muddy  road  in  the  drenching  rain  alone  is 
left,  cold,  prosaic.  And  I  shiver  in  my  kuriima. 


Ill 

MME  (PLUM-BLOSSOMS) 

THEY  lay  in  fleece-white  purity  down  the  hillside,  and 
the  brooding  stillness  of  that  garden  was  as  a  sheltering 
wing  above  the  world. 

Beneath  one's  feet  the  six-sided  tiles  set  in  the 
brown  earth  were  clean  with  a  Dutch  cleanliness,  and 
the  soil  all  around  had  been  raked  with  the  same 
quaint  precision.  Not  a  fallen  leaf,  nor  the  foot-mark 
of  a  bird,  marred  the  soft  brown  surface — only  the 
narrow  line  of  glazed  tiles  ran  on  and  on  under  the 
trees. 

On  every  side  the  curve  of  the  hill  sloped  upwards, 
outwards,  drawing  the  white  garden  nearer  as  a  mother 
draws  her  child  close  within  her  arms. 

A  hot  sweet  scent  is  in  the  air,  delicate  as 
honeysuckle,  fragrant  as  the  pine,  half-soft,  half- 
spiced — the  scent  of  the  blossoming  plum,  mme, 
the  emblem  of  chastity,  of  womanly  purity  and 
strength. 

The  pale  grey  stems  of  the  trees  are  bent  and  old  ; 
some  are  covered  with  a  grey-green  moss,  and  between 
their  silvered  stems  I  walk  as  in  the  cloistered  calm  of 
ruined  abbeys. 

Up  through  the  white  fleece  of  blossom  overhead 
bright  stars  of  blue  shine  down.  The  sun-warmed 


162       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

presence  of  the  living  earth  draws  her  children  near. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  no  sound.  .  .  . 

"  Like  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  chickens."  .  .  . 

Is  not  that  the  white  wing  of  the  eternal  mother 
overhead  ?  And  the  warm,  sweet  fragrance  of  herself 
is  all  around. 


IV 

WET  LEAVES 

IT  had  rained  all  night  and  all  day  ;  big,  solid  drops 
of  rain  that  fell  as  compactly  through  the  air  as 
battalions  of  small  shot,  but  at  twilight  the  raindrops 
dwindled,  slackened,  dwindled,  ceased. 

The  clear,  colourless  sky,  which  the  whole  day  long 
had  shot  down  its  drops  of  rain,  drew  together  in  grey 
clouds,  growing  momentarily  greyer,  thicker  and  more 
grey,  and  shining  with  a  pale  light  as  though  far  away 
behind  those  thick  coverings  a  great  white  light  was 
burning. 

The  stones  on  the  pathway  were  all  wet  and  shining 
and  crunched  down  into  little  pools  of  water  under 
one's  heels.  The  trees  were  dripping  raindrops  at 
each  leaf,  the  trunks  of  all  the  pines  were  a  dark 
brown  with  wet. 

In  the  garden  there  was  peace,  a  peace  of  plants 
weighed  down  with  raindrops,  and  very  tired.  Up  on 
the  damp  hillside  the  note  of  a  solitary  bird  sounded 
forlornly.  Uguisu,  the  Japanese  nightingale  was 
calling.  One  sweet  short  song,  and  then  a  greater 
silence. 

Above  the  little  grey  shrine  to  Inari,  the  Fox  God, 
two  golden  oranges  swayed  out  against  the  dark  green 
bush.  The  raindrops  on  their  under  sides  trickled 


1 64      SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

slowly  over  the  little  temple,  and  down  the  miniature 
steps,  while  those  on  the  upper  sides  stood  out  in  little 
clusters  growing  larger  and  larger  until  an  impercep- 
tible stir  of  the  heavy  fruit  sent  them  chasing  their 
fellows  down  the  temple's  roof. 

And  the  sky  above  grew  greyer.  The  golden 
oranges,  larger  for  the  raindrops,  swayed  mysteriously 
out,  bright  yellow  against  dark  green,  in  a  damp,  dark 
world. 

At  the  path's  edge  another  pathway  of  clear  water 
encircled  the  temple  and  the  orange  trees ;  a  water  so 
clear  that  it  hardly  seemed  to  exist,  while  the  brown 
banks  and  the  brown  stones  showed  wet  and  dark  as 
the  pathway  under  foot.  And  round  the  temple  and 
the  orange  trees  in  ever  silent  motion  along  the  brown 
pathway  swam  strange  fishes ;  bright  blue  carp  with 
black  sides  and  designs  in  creamy  white,  large  orange 
carp  with  tracings  in  silver,  golden  carp  with  six  or 
seven  waving  tails,  and  solitary  in  their  midst  one 
white  patriarch  whom  age  had  turned  to  driven  snow. 

And  the  damp,  dark  world  turned  slowly  darker. 
The  wet  hillside  grew  a  black,  blurred  line  ;  the  light 
behind  the  cloud  was  going  out ;  the  trees  had  lost 
their  colour. 

All  silently  the  blue  carp  moved  along  the  dark 
pathway,  and  the  golden  orange  globes  dripped  above 
the  little  temple.  Bright  blue,  orange ;  the  light 
behind  the  clouds  was  out. 


ASAMAYAMA 

WE  were  to  climb  Asamayama.  The  plan  seemed 
simple  and  delightful ;  to  take  horses  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  and  ride  by  moonlight  to  the  last  green  frill  of 
trees  upon  the  mountain  side  :  to  climb  the  nine 
thousand  feet  to  the  very  edge  of  the  crater  ;  and  then 
in  those  blackest  hours  before  the  dawn  to  look  into 
the  volcano's  mysterious  depths,  all  red  and  glowing, 
where  flame  and  smoke  strive  ever  for  the  mastery, 
where  the  long  orange  tongues  leap  up  through  rolling 
purple  masses  of  the  smoke  ;  and  all  around  and  all 
below,  as  far  as  eye  can  pierce,  is  lurid  glowing  red. 
And  still  on  the  crater's  treacherous  sides  which  hold 
smoke  and  flame  unsteadily  as  a  drunkard  holds  his 
cup,  to  look  down  fascinated  until  they  crumble 
beneath  one's  feet,  and  the  thrill  of  terror  bites  in  the 
memory  of  the  mighty  force  indelible.  Then  to  break- 
fast under  the  sheltering  walls  of  the  old  crater  ;  to 
watch  the  darkness  melt  before  the  coming  day,  to  see 
the  sun  rise  swiftly  in  his  strength,  and  the  long  circle 
of  the  hills  stand  clear  and  blue  and  liquid  on  the 
upland  plain  ;  to  see  the  giant  ridges  of  the  mountains 
stretching  from  sea  to  sea  with  the  faint  white  cone  of 
Fuji  a  dream  upon  the  distant  sky ;  to  look  in  the 
freshness  of  the  morning  upon  the  beauty  of  the  land, 


1 66       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

and  standing  on  the  cinder  slopes  of  Asama  to  trace 
the  tortured  lava  beds  stretching  like  long  grey  snakes 
among  the  green  till  the  trees  grow  over  and  the  forest 
engulfs  them.  And  still  in  the  first  hours  of  the  dawn 
to  ride  back  slowly  with  the  memory  of  the  crater  and 
the  sunrise  making  pictures  in  one's  mind,  tired  but 
contented. 

The  programme  was  delightful,  perfect,  it  only 
remained  to  carry  it  out.  So  we  started,  on  the 
sorry  horses  of  the  upland  regions  of  Japan,  and  the 
full  moon  fitful  behind  thick  clouds  shone  sadly.  It 
was  distinctly  chilly,  for  the  table  land  of  Karuizawa  is 
3000  feet  above  sea  level,  and  in  the  air  was  the  damp 
shiver  of  coming  rain.  Still  we  started,  out  of  the 
village  and  along  the  wide  still  plain  where  the  dark 
shadow  of  a  hill  showed  round  as  a  basin  on  our  right. 
This  was  Asama's  satellite,  born  of  her  fires,  made 
of  her  ashes,  a  round,  smooth,  green  hill,  cruelly 
deceitful. 

The  empty  plain  stretched  dark  to  the  edge  of  the 
misty  clouds  and  diffused  through  it  was  a  pale  grey 
light  that  shimmered,  trembling.  Over  the  plain  and 
the  mountain,  through  the  air  and  the  shadows,  the 
light  filtered  mistily,  swaying  and  rounding  the  outlines 
till  they  looked  like  solid  bodies  seen  through  a  vast 
perspective  of  clear  water.  As  we  plodded  on,  the 
paper  lanterns  held  by  each  boy  at  the  horses'  heads 
turned  all  the  wet  black  path  to  shining  silver  pools 
which  gleamed  as  the  light  fell  on  them,  quivered  like 
spreading  veins  of  ore,  and  disappeared  into  the  black- 
ness. The  limpid  flowing  air  that  swayed  above  the 
plain,  all  luminous  and  clear,  grew  darker,  shrank  as  it 
were  together,  lost  its  liquid  light,  turned  slowly  into 
rain,  and  came  down  steadily. 


ASAMAYAMA  167 

We  passed  through  a  second  village,  and  went  on, 
over  a  rutty  road,  between  high  banks,  persistently 
upwards.  All  the  sounds  of  the  world  had  died  away, 
and  the  life  of  the  woods,  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  of 
grasses,  the  long  thick  hum  of  the  insects  was  dead. 
Nothing  moved.  Even  the  rain  made  no  sound  as  it 
fell  in  great  wet  clouds  upon  the  ground. 

High  up  on  the  rutty  road  we  halted,  while  the  two 
boys  plunging  downward  through  the  bushes  in  the 
darkness  drank  of  a  silent  stream  which  flowed  below, 
the  last  water  we  should  pass  that  night.  The  leaves 
of  the  bushes  cut  sharp  green  silhouettes  upon  the 
blackness,  stiff  and  metallic  as  tinfoil,  as  the  boys, 
lantern  in  hand,  plunged  downward,  But  we  did  not 
go,  for  the  soft  cloud  of  rain  was  falling  thicker, 
wetter,  and  we  were  cold.  When  each  had  drunk  his 
fill,  and  the  metal  green  leaves  of  the  bushes  had 
flashed  back  into  darkness  again,  we  plodded  on, 
over  the  common,  under  the  trees,  along  another 
piece  of  road,  looser,  more  rutty  than  the  last, 
and  definitely  among  the  dripping  trees  we  climbed 
upward. 

The  moon  was  gone  now,  hidden  deep  behind  the 
falling  layers  of  cloud.  And  there  was  a  hush,  a 
stagnancy  upon  all  things  as  though  an  unseen,  un- 
known force  were  terrorising  life  to  stillness.  Not  a 
tree  had  leave  to  stir.  The  branches  huddled  dumbly, 
and  all  the  seething  insect  life  which  makes  the  woods 
so  full  of  sound  lay  stricken,  lay  dumb,  paralysed ;  and 
among  the  damp  trees  we  journeyed  on. 

At  midnight  the  horses  stopped,  in  a  fold  of  the  hills 
on  the  edge  of  the  trees,  where  the  blackness  lay  solid, 
and  we  slid  down.  One  boy  tied  the  horses  together 


1 68       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

and  sat  down  patiently  to  await  our  return  next 
morning.  The  other  snuffed  the  candle  in  his  paper 
lantern  and  prepared  to  lead  the  way.  By  this  time  it 
was  raining  hard,  in  distinct  material  drops,  which 
splashed  sharply  on  face  and  hands,  and  it  was  pitch 
dark.  The  boy,  lantern  in  hand,  went  first,  and  all 
the  light  of  the  lantern  so  carefully  trimmed  was 
cut  off  from  us  by  his  stout  round  body.  We  knew 
by  the  crunch  there  were  cinders  under  foot,  by  the 
cold  wet  dabs  that  ghost-like  pressed  our  hands  that 
there  were  bushes,  and  that  we  climbed. 

From  time  to  time  the  boy  would  sway  his  lantern  to 
one  side  or  the  other,  and  stunted  shrubs  like  London 
laurel  trees  would  start  into  being,  and  disappear. 
With  each  swing  of  the  lantern  the  stunted  shrubs 
grew  scarcer  and  more  stunted,  till  they  dwindled  to 
bushes,  to  mere  green  weeds  like  dandelions,  to 
nothingness.  Then  the  light  fell  on  cinder,  piled  up, 
half-burnt  cinder  with  ends  of  broken  brickbats,  and 
all  the  rubbish  of  a  dust-heap.  And  at  each  step  the 
wind  came  up  and  up  ;  colder,  stronger,  wetter  it  tore 
down  the  bare  steep  slopes  driving  us  backwards. 
Then  we  would  sit  down  upon  the  cinders,  our  backs 
to  the  mountain,  our  feet  on  the  brickbats,  and  pant. 
It  was  distinctly  exhausting.  Each  footstep  was  a 
launch  into  the  unknown,  and  a  searching  for  a  foot- 
hold, each  pause  an  adding  to  the  weight  of  cinders 
that  drifted  down  boots  and  clothing.  And  it  rained 
with  fierce  splashes  when  the  wind  blew,  with  dull 
persistency  when  it  died  away,  but  still  unceasingly. 
And  that  sense  of  an  unseen,  unknown  force,  paralysing 
all  things,  grew  with  each  footstep.  The  chill  of  a 
dumb  terror  lay  upon  the  world,  and  the  utter  desolation 
struck  colder  than  the  wind. 


ASAMAYAMA  169 

We  rested  again  while  the  icy  wind  rushed  screech- 
ing through  the  cinders ;  and,  as  it  died  away,  the 
chirp  of  a  Japanese  grasshopper  came  into  the  stillness. 
We  were  far  above  the  weeds  now,  in  the  region  of 
perpetual  cinder,  and  still  that  grasshopper  chirped 
weakly.  But  the  spell  was  too  real,  the  terror  too 
deathly ;  the  unseen,  unknown  force  took  a  step  nearer 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  weak  wee  chirp  seemed  only 
the  voice  of  the  horror,  the  breath  of  the  dumbness 
giving  it  life. 

The  cinders  grew  looser  and  looser  as  we  climbed, 
more  difficult  to  tread,  and  the  stagnant  silence  was 
filled  and  filled  with  sulphur.  It  did  not  come  in 
breaths  or  gusts,  or  driving  before  the  wind,  it  was 
there  in  the  silence,  part  of  it,  and  it  wrapped  us 
round.  If  dead  silence  can  grow  more  deathly,  then 
did  that  stillness  die  again.  The  dumb  terror  tightened 
on  the  world,  and  the  unknown  force  came  nearer. 

From  far  below  the  sound  of  pouring  heavy  stones 
drove  up  and  up.  The  mountain  rumbled  in  its 
depths,  rumbled  and  was  still.  The  presence  of  that 
unseen  force  was  manifest.  Before  it  terror  crouched 
still  as  a  bird  beneath  the  swooping  shadow  of  the 
hawk. 

We  climbed  up  heavily,  up  through  the  thick 
sulphur  and  the  loose  steep  cinders,  up  till  we  turned, 
and  the  full  force  of  the  wind  came  sweeping  round 
the  side  of  the  mountain.  We  were  walking  on  the 
edge,  the  real  edge  over  which  you  could  fall,  and  it 
was  all  of  lava,  sticky  as  clay  and  crossed  with  deep 
black  cracks  that  had  no  bottom.  The  wind  swept 
down  here  undisturbed,  the  gusts  of  rain  broke  sharply 
on  the  paper  lantern  as  it  swayed  from  side  to  side  to 
peer  out  a  way.  The  sticky  lava  softened  rapidly  until 


170       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

it  sucked  around  our  feet,  drawing  them  down.  Then 
a  long  fierce  gust  blew  out  the  lantern  and  we  stood 
still. 

"  Honourably  please  stand  very  still,"  called  the 
boy  quickly. 

And  we  stayed  dead  still. 

The  gust  of  wind  rushed  by  us,  rushed  on.  Then 
another  blew  till  we  cowered  on  the  sinking  lava.  It 
was  so  long  in  passing  that  the  moments  seemed  as 
hours.  We  stood  like  statues.  Insidiously  the  lava 
crept  above  our  feet,  crept  stealthily,  and  motionless 
we  waited. 

The  gust  died  down  but  the  wind  still  blew,  still 
blew.  A  light  quivered  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness 
and  went  out.  The  boy  had  lit  a  match.  He  struck 
another.  It  flickered  in  little  yellow  leaps  that  showed 
the  lantern  and  his  face  and  went  abruptly  out.  Again 
the  tiny  mandorla  of  light  shot  up,  the  boy  was  holding 
the  lantern  in  his  hand  all  ready.  We  could  see  the 
flame  double  as  the  candle  caught,  then  both  went 
swiftly  out,  for  again  the  wind  came  rushing  down. 
It  blew  and  blew.  Then  it  blew  so  fiercely  that  to 
blow  again  it  stopped  to  take  its  breath.  Quickly  in 
the  second's  pause  the  match  flared  up,  the  lantern  lit, 
and  we  could  move. 

As  we  drew  out  our  feet  the  wicked  sticking  lava 
sucked,  and  the  boy  held  the  lantern  low  to  peer  out 
the  cracks.  Then  he  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and 
the  wind  was  gone. 

We  stood  in  a  narrow  roofless  cave  whose  sides 
were  overhanging  rock,  whose  floor  was  lava  ash, 
wet  with  big  rain  pools.  This  was  the  old  crater. 
Asama  has  three  craters,  and  two  are  at  present  in 
disuse.  We  were  sheltering  in  one  of  these.  It 


ASAMAYAMA  171 

was  a  still  haven  of  refuge  after  the  fury  of  the 
wind  outside,  and  a  sure.  There  were  no  cracks,  no 
sticky  sucking  lava  here.  With  relief  as  from  a  heavy 
burden  we  sat  down  upon  the  wet  ash  to  rest  and  eat, 
the  lantern  in  our  midst. 

It  was  now  3  o'clock.  Since  midnight  we  had  been 
climbing,  our  clothes  were  soaked  and  heavy  with  rain 
and  cinders,  and  we  were  very  tired.  The  boy  pro- 
saically unpacked  the  hamper,  and  by  the  flickering 
light  he  set  out  plates  and  food.  But  before  we  could 
take  one  mouthful,  the  wind  rushed  down  the  roofless 
cave,  upset  the  hamper,  swept  the  lantern  along  the 
ash  before  it,  tore  like  a  whirlwind  from  end  to  end, 
and  left  us  in  an  unearthly  livid  darkness  that  lighted 
nothing. 

For  a  moment  we  all  stayed  numbed,  then  the  boy 
sought  the  remnants  of  his  lantern  and  we  the 
remnants  of  our  meal.  They  were  both  embedded  in 
thick  lava  dust. 

We  could  not  go  on  up  the  crater  now,  for  every 
minute  the  wind  blew  fiercer,  and  the  paper  lantern 
was  torn  in  several  places.  We  must  wait  for  the 
dawn  to  show  us  the  way.  So  we  huddled  under  the 
shelter  of  the  overhanging  rock  and  waited. 

The  livid  darkness  that  lay  upon  the  mountain  grew 
more  livid  and  less  dark  to  our  watching  eyes,  till  we 
could  distinguish  the  faint  outlines  of  things,  though  not 
the  things  themselves.  It  was,  oh  !  so  cold,  and  that 
sense  of  stagnant  terror,  dispersed  for  a  little  by  the 
wind  and  the  food,  crept  back  and  back,  intenser, 
dumber  than  before. 

Then  the  mountain  rumbled  in  its  depths,  and  the 
sound  of  pouring  heavy  stones  came  up  again.  This 


172       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

time  it  did  not  die  away,  it  stopped  abruptly,  as  though 
by  force  of  will.  And  we  waited. 

It  was  so  cold  that  I  could  sit  still  no  longer,  and, 
wrapping  my  cloak  around  me,  tired  as  I  was,  walked 
up  and  down,  up  and  down. 

The  overhanging  rocks,  whose  outlines  showed  so 
ghostly  against  the  livid  darkness,  rose  high  above 
our  heads.  From  time  to  time  the  sulphur  thickened 
in  the  air,  making  us  cough. 

And  the  deathness  of  that  silence,  the  dumb  horror 
of  that  stillness  spread  and  spread  and  spread.  It  was 
all  afraid. 

The  boy,  curled  under  his  rock,  slept  peacefully. 
We  walked  and  waited. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  two  great  tongues  of  flame 
shot  into  the  darkness,  leapt  high  toward  the  sky,  and 
two  reports,  as  of  the  heaviest  thunder,  shook  the 
mountain.  The  boy,  awakened,  jumped  up  quickly, 
looked  at  the  flames  as  they  sprang  into  the  darkness, 
and  the  thunder  of  the  second  report  shook  the  ground 
beneath  his  feet,  turned  to  speak,  when  a  sudden  sharp 
clatter  came  like  a  hiss  past  all  our  ears,  calling 
"Stones,  stones,"  he  threw  himself  flat  on  his  face 
and  rolled  right  under  the  rock. 

We,  too,  rushed  to  the  overhanging  rocks  and 
crouched  down  quickly,  and  the  sharp  clatter  of  stone 
on  stone  went  on  all  around  us. 

Asama  had  rumbled  to  some  purpose,  and  she  was 
resting. 

Then  the  utter  silence,  the  dead,  dumb  horror  came 
back,  came  back  again.  Fear  breathed  beside  us  in 
the  darkness. 


ASAMAYAMA  173 

Slowly  the  little  stars  above  the  rocks  dropped  out 
of  the  sky,  the  livid  darkness  changed  to  livid  light, 
and  it  was  dawn,  a  cold,  grey  dawn,  but  little  lighter 
than  the  night  had  been.  Still  we  could  see,  see  the 
lava  and  the  ash,  so,  rolling  out  from  under  our  rock, 
we  shook  ourselves  together,  chattering  with  cold. 

The  ground  at  our  feet  was  sprinkled  with  pinky-grey 
stones,  daubed  with  bright  yellow  sulphur,  and  glowing 
hot.  They  were  as  large  as  a  clenched  fist,  with  edges 
sharp  and  jagged.  We  stooped  to  pick  up  one — the 
least  hot — and  carry  it  wrapt  in  handkerchiefs,  which 
it  burnt,  and  mackintoshes  which  it  singed,  back  to 
Karuizawa. 

The  boy  looked  at  the  stones,  looked  at  us,  looked 
towards  the  crater,  and  asked  with  many  warnings  if 
we  were  to  go  on.  We,  too,  looked  at  the  stones, 
and  thoughtfully  towards  the  crater,  and,  as  we  looked, 
the  mountain  rumbled  slowly  in  its  depths. 

Seizing  the  basket,  the  boy  fled,  our  one  and  only 
guide.  We  followed  him,  over  the  cracks  and  the 
spongy  soft  lava,  too  occupied  with  wondering  how  we 
had  ever  passed  over  it  safely  the  night  before  to  be 
afraid  now — too  busy,  too,  watching  the  boy  fleeing  in 
front  of  us,  too  occupied  marking  his  path  to  think  even 
of  eruptions.  And  somehow  we  got  over  safely,  back 
on  to  the  solid  cinder  slope  of  Asama  again,  the  slope 
that  went  down  straight  as  a  shoot,  and  fell  away  as 
abruptly  on  each  side  as  a  bridge.  It  was  ground,  and 
after  the  cracks  and  the  sucking  lava,  solid,  though  the 
cinders  did  shift  beneath  our  feet.  We  had  leisure  to 
look  round  us,  and  found  the  mountain  wrapped  in  a 
thick  white  mist.  By  this  time  the  boy  had  disap- 
peared entirely,  but  we  did  not  trouble  now.  There 
seemed  no  choice  of  paths  down.  Our  cinder  bridge 


174       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

went  on,  sloping  steeply  downwards  into  the  hidden 
world  below,  and  we  followed  it. 

A  little  way  below,  the  mist  sank  suddenly  beneath 
our  feet,  and  we  were  walking  in  the  yellow  sunlight — 
walking  down  a  cinder  slope  that  shone  jet-black 
against  a  pale  blue  sky,  while  all  around  and  all 
beneath,  and  surging  up  against  the  cinder  slope, 
floated  a  wild  wide  sea  of  dead  white  clouds — a  dead, 
still  sea,  with  its  waves  stiffened  into  frozen  snow. 
Tossing,  it  lay  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  the  pale 
sun  glinted  on  its  snow-white  crests,  glinted  on  the 
still  gigantic  billows  that  stretched  from  cinder  path- 
way to  the  far  blue  sky.  It  lay  a  silent  sea  of  milk- 
white  frozen  waves  that  was  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  of. 

And  we  went  on,  down.  As  the  gods  of  old  along  a 
sloping  bridge  that  crossed  the  clouds  and  stretched 
from  the  blue  heaven  to  the  hidden  earth  beneath,  like 
Izanagi  and  Izanami,  as  they  crossed  the  rainbow 
bridge  from  the  High  Plain  of  Heaven  and  stirred  the 
floating  brine  with  their  jewelled  spear — stirred  till  it 
went  "  koro,  koro  " — till  it  went  "  curdle,  curdle,"  as  the 
old  chronicle  says,  and  the  drops  that  dripping  fell 
from  the  celestial  spear  piled  up  into  the  firstborn  of 
the  islands  of  Japan. 

A  sudden  peal  of  echoing  thunder  shook  our  cinder 
bridge,  and  we  turned  abruptly.  Somewhere  on  the 
other  side  of  the  topmost  edge  of  cinder  rose  up  a 
huge  column  of  thick  smoke.  The  wickedest  dead- 
white  smoke,  which,  slowly  curling  over  at  the  tips 
like  ostrich  feathers,  showed  shadows  of  deep  mauve 
and  dull  blue-purple,  while  from  below  the  heavy 


ASAMAYAMA  175 

pouring  of  great  stones  drove  up  and  up.  Asama 
rumbled,  rumbled  in  her  depths.  Half  an  hour  sooner 
we  should  have  been  up  there  still.  Had  we  gone  on 
to  the  crater  we  should  have  been  on  the  very  edge. 
The  memory  of  the  sharp-edged  clattering  stones,  red- 
hot  and  big  as  fists,  came  back  to  us.  We  looked  at 
one  another  silently,  and  went  on,  downwards. 

Slowly  the  gigantic  plumes  of  thick  curdled  smoke 
drifted  up  into  the  blue,  and  they  were  very  beautiful. 
It  was  as  though  Asama  wore  a  sweeping  white  panache 
in  her  coal-black  helmet.  But  the  thundering  roar  of 
the  eruption  had  torn  our  sea  of  frozen  snow,  to  pieces. 
The  blank  white  mist  shut  swiftly  down,  and  hid  the 
mountain  and  the  smoke,  the  cinders  and  the  sky;  only 
the  wide  black  bridge  was  left  sloping  straight 
downwards. 

We  reached  our  horses  drenched,  to  sit  on  high- 
peaked  saddles  and  journey  back  through  dank  dripping 
trees,  over  rutty  roads,  across  thick  green  commons 
heavy  with  mist,  back  cold,  wet  and  hungry  to  Karui- 
zawa  again. 

But  we  kept  our  stone,  and  though  we  had  not  seen 
into  the  crater,  we  had  perhaps  come  nearer  to  that 
mysterious  force,  itself  unseen,  unknown,  which  dwells 
beneath  the  lava  and  the  ash,  and  terrorises  life. 


VI 
CAMELLIAS 

BLUE  bay  below  as  far  as  eye  can  reach.  Blue  sky 
above,  blue  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  And  in  between 
a  steep  cliff  of  green  :  dark  fir,  pale  bamboo,  and  that 
impenetrable  undergrowth  for  which  alone  a  botanist 
has  a  name — or  names. 

The  time  of  the  plum  blossom  has  been,  is  gone,  and 
the  world  is  drowsing  in  the  dream  of  summer.  Up  here 
in  the  green  the  quick  sappy  life  is  stirring,  I  can  hear  it 
plainly  ;  for  in  all  the  world  there  is  no  other  sound. 

The  trodden  green  path  runs  up,  from  blue  to  blue. 
Midway  between  the  two  I  stop.  And  the  green 
world  closes  in  around  me,  shutting  out  the  blue  I 
came  from  and  the  blue  to  which  I  go. 

The  tall  dark  firs  sway  slowly.  The  pale  bamboos 
wave  slim  fingers,  green  as  March  lime  leaves  in  the 
sun,  their  golden  stems  are  elusive  and  bewitching, 
sunned  dryads  of  the  East. 

The  green  world  has  me  in  its  hold.  I  forget  the 
steep  path  to  the  blue  above.  It  is  warm  and  still,  and 
the  bamboos  beckon  as  they  sway. 

How  green  it  is  !  All  the  greens  a  painter  ever 
dreamt  of  ...  and  the  graceful  bamboos  beckon 
Eastern  Vivians  to  bewitch. 

I  stay  to  look  and  look — never  trees  so  graceful  nor 


CAMELLIAS  177 

the  green  world  so  fair.  A  step.  I  have  left  the  path- 
way,— and  then — I  stop.  Beyond  the  pale  bamboos 
and  above  them,  its  dark  green  branches  rising  up- 
wards to  the  blue,  is  a  camellia  tree.  Each  glossy 
handful  of  leaves  holds  a  single  blood-red  flower. 
And  the  tree  stands  there  beyond,  above  the  swaying, 
beckoning  bamboos,  stern,  severe. 
"  And  the  Wages  of  Sin  is  Death." 

I  turn  back  to  the  path.  The  blue  below  spreads  out 
as  far  as  eye  can  reach,  the  blue  above  lies  shining 
at  the  end  of  the  pathway.  The  green  world  between 
is  still. 

But  the  path  is  very  steep. 


VII 
RAIN 

THE  world  is  wet  as  when  first  parted  from  the  waters  ; 
and  the  firmament  above,  uncertain  in  its  new  position, 
seems  slipping  bodily  down  to  join  the  waters  below. 
The  sound  of  falling  rain,  unformed,  continuous,  seems 
to  have  come  from  the  time  before  Time  was  ;  while 
the  tiny  squelch  of  liquid  mud  oozing  up  between  the 
bare  toes  of  the  kurumaya  alone  marks  the  present. 

It  is  dark.  The  paper  lantern,  swinging  at  the  end 
of  the  shaft,  lights  up  the  pools  of  the  roadway  with  a 
transient  gleam.  For  the  rest,  alone  in  my  minia- 
ture hansom,  with  the  apron  up  to  my  eyes,  and 
the  roof  down  to  my  eyebrows,  the  world,  with  the 
rushing  swish  of  falling  rain,  seems  dissolving  slowly 
into  the  waters,  and  the  history  of  creation  marching 
backwards. 

A  splash  of  wheels  behind  me,  and  the  black  mush- 
room hat  of  my  kurumaya  bobs  up  above  the  apron, 
for  the  hill  is  steep.  A  shout,  and  the  'ricksha  behind 
me  stops.  My  kurumaya  stands  still,  holding  the  thin 
lacquered  shafts  in  his  hands  and  shouts  back.  Then 
he  drags  me  to  the  roadside,  and,  putting  the  shafts 
on  the  ground,  steps  over  them  and  disappears  with 
his  lantern.  Balancing  in  my  kuruma  like  the  monks 
on  the  miserere  seats  I  am  left  all  alone. 


RAIN  179 

What  is  the  matter  ? 

A  splash  of  wheels,  the  heavy  panting  of  two  men. 
They  are  pulling  the  other  kuruma  up  the  steep  hill, 
and  will  come  back  for  me.  So  I  wait,  rigid ;  for  the 
hill  is  steep,  the  mud  slippery  and  the  angle  of  the  seat 
precarious.  I  strain  my  eyes  to  see — a  corner  of 
muddy  road,  half  the  blurred  outline  of  a  hedge.  And 
not  all  the  light  in  all  the  world  could  show  me  more, 
for  the  roof  above  my  head  is  as  a  hand  on  my  eyelids 
pressing  them  downwards. 

The  wheels  have  splashed  their  way  up  the  hill,  and 
I  can  hear  them  no  longer.  Only  the  sound  of  the  falling 
rain,  driven  momentarily  away  by  the  sharper  splash  of 
the  moving  wheels,  comes  back,  slowly,  steadily,  irre- 
sistibly, submerging  the  world  and  me. 

I  am  all  alone,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  behind 
me  an  unknown  road,  in  front — I  strain  my  eyes  to 
see.  Even  the  hedge  has  grown  unfamiliar.  It  is  no 
hedge,  nothing  but  impenetrable  undergrowth.  I  am  on 
the  edge  of  a  forest. 

And  the  road  ? 

For  the  first  time  I  notice  how  strange  even  the  mud 
of  a  road  can  be.  This  is  trodden  all  over  with  the 
prints  of  naked  human  feet,  and  the  endless  knife  cuts 
of  the  gheta. 

The  loneliness  is  wrapping  itself  around  me  as  a  pall. 

The  dull  swish  of  the  rushing  raindrops  goes  on  and 
on.  How  long  have  they  left  me  in  a  dissolving  world 
alone.  No  sound  above,  no  sound  below.  And  the 
rush  of  the  falling  rain  is  drumming  in  my  ears. 

A  hideous  nightmare  possesses  me.  Surely  the 
trickling  pools  are  carrying  away  the  mud  from  under 
my  wheels.  I  shall  slip  down,  down  into  nothingness 
with  the  falling  rain, 


180       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

I  dare  not  move.  My  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  narrow 
strip  of  muddy  road  in  front  of  me.  The  shafts  are 
surely  slipping 

Then  the  rush  of  the  falling  raindrops  drowns  the 
world. 


VIII 
THE  BLACK  CANAL 

THE  handle  of  the  Japanese  guitar,  from  which  Lake 
Biwa  takes  its  name,  is  at  Otsu,  six  miles  from  Kyoto 
and  three  hundred  feet  above  it.  Between  stands  all 
the  thickness  of  Kyoto's  girdle  of  mountains.  Built  in 
the  flat  bottom  of  an  immense  bowl,  dark  green  with 
pine-clad  hills,  Kyoto,  the  ancient  capital,  is  still  the 
artistic  centre  of  Japan.  It  is  a  city  of  350,000  inhabi- 
tants, and  many  manufactories,  but  with  little  water  or 
water  transit,  while  only  six  miles  away,  beyond  the 
mountains  and  above  the  town,  Lake  Biwa  stretches 
a  long  arm  from  the  ports  of  the  west  coast  towards 
the  city. 

It  was  in  1890  that  Tanabe  Sakuro,  piercing  the 
heart  of  the  mountains,  brought  the  waters  of  Lake 
Biwa,  running  swiftly  under  the  hills,  into  Kyoto. 
And  the  Black  Canal  begins  at  Otsu. 

Deep  down  in  the  last  of  the  rampart  of  locks  which 
shuts  out  the  lake  lies  the  long  narrow  sampan,  a  white 
gondola,  carpeted  and  cushioned,  a  large  torch  flames 
on  either  side,  and  the  boatman  stands  ready  behind. 
We  sit  on  the  cushions  on  the  carpet,  for  the  canal  is 
but  just  the  height  of  a  man,  and  but  just  the  width  of 
two  sampan.  The  cement  sides  of  the  lock  rise  up 
like  walls ;  in  front  is  the  black  arch  of  a  tunnel,  cut 


1 82       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

like  a  tiny  doorway  in  the  base  of  '-'he  great  green 
mountain.  A  moment,  and  we  are  inside,  in  the  pitch 
blackness  ;  rushing  swiftly,  silently  along  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  a  subterranean  night.  The  two  huge  torches 
that  we  carry  show  the  darkness  falling  like  a  thick 
curtain  before,  behind  us  ;  and  the  silence  is  the  silence 
of  infinite  ages  asleep. 

The  rhythm  of  the  rushing  water  passes  like  a 
breath  through  the  darkness,  but  the  speed  is  unfelt. 
Move  your  hand  beyond  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  the 
contact  of  the  wall  will  tear  all  the  skin  from  the 
knuckles  in  one  swift  scrape.  For  the  water  rushes, 
rushes  silent  in  the  darkness,  not  a  current  but  a  force. 

Suddenly  in  the  blackness  there  is  a  light ;  three 
nude  figures  poised,  their  muscles  strained,  human 
strength  pitted  against  the  water's  force.  Their  boat 
moves  but  slowly,  we  are  by  in  a  flash.  The  naked 
orange  figures  form  but  one  picture,  one  posture 
against  the  blackness,  a  living  red  group  from  the 
black  urns  of  Greece  ;  seen,  gone  ;  and  the  darkness 
drops  down  in  thick  curtains  all  around. 

Swiftly  the  water  rushes,  silent,  the  rhythmic  breath- 
ing of  black  night.  The  darkness  deepens,  deepens ; 
then  cracks.  A  thin,  thin  slit  parts  black  from  black, 
and  slowly  grows  a  narrow  streak  of  faintest  grey. 

It  is  light ;  light  like  the  thinnest  edge  of  a  sword  set 
in  the  far  distance.  But  the  crack  broadens,  widens, 
rounds,  and  grows  by  imperceptible  degrees  into  an 
open  archway,  showing  the  bright  water  and  the  green 
hills  beyond.  And  swiftly  we  rush  towards  the  light, 
while  the  little  picture  no  bigger  than  the  reflection  on 
a  camera  grows  curves  and  outlines,  swells  here, 
retreats  there,  and  passes  from  a  flat  reflection  into  a 
rounded  reality. 


THE  BLACK  CANAL  183 

The  tunnel  itself  is  no  longer  black.  The  walls,  the 
rounded  roof,  lie  like  shadows,  deep  brown,  growing 
quickly  greyer.  And  above,  on  eithe  side,  the  bats 
are  clinging  thickly,  in  long  rows. 

We  shoot  into  the  light  and  see  that  walls  and  boat 
are  covered  with  a  fluttering  half-dead  mass  of  ghost- 
grey  moths.  They  coat  the  tunnel  from  wall  to  roof, 
they  lie  in  struggling  heaps  on  boat  and  carpet,  our 
clothes  are  full  of  them. 

With  one  last  swift  glide  we  are  out  of  the  grey 
shadow,  out  under  the  blue  sky.  The  green  hills  rise 
on  either  side,  the  water  dimples  in  the  sun.  Slowly 
the  grey  moths  flutter  back  to  the  darkness.  For 
through  the  heart  of  the  mountain  Lake  Biwa  has 
come  to  Kyoto. 


IX 
THE  INLAND  SEA 

THE  little  steamer  lay  tilted  up  against  the  end  of  the 
pier,  for  all  the  waters  of  the  ocean  were  rushing 
madly  through  the  Straits  of  Shimonoseki  into  the 
Inland  Sea.  The  waters  lay  encircled  as  a  lake,  for 
the  space  between  the  inner  and  the  outer  strait  is 
narrow,  but  they  ran  swift  as  a  mountain  river.  The 
square-sailed  junks,  all  sails  set,  were  racing  down  the 
stream  in  the  very  eye  of  the  wind,  while  those  coming 
up  with  a  strong  breeze  behind  them  hardly  seemed  to 
stir.  And  the  little  steamer  at  the  end  of  the  pier 
tilted  herself  up  higher  and  higher. 

She  was  a  foreign- built  boat,  though  only  about  the 
size  of  a  launch,  but  she  looked  like  a  Moorish  house 
afloat,  for  all  the  boat  was  cabin,  and  all  the  deck  was 
roof,  whitewashed,  ribbed  roof,  with  a  striped  awning. 
As  we  left  the  pier  and  struck  the  full  force  of  the 
current,  the  striped  awning  and  the  uneven  deck 
dipped  down  and  down  until  the  Moorish  roof  turned 
Gothic.  We  were  in  the  full  force  of  the  current  now, 
and  tearing  down  the  stream  with,  as  somebody  said, 
"all  our  engines  going  the  wrong  way."  Up  the  side 
of  the  boat  the  water  climbed,  pulling  it  down  with 
long  strong  hands,  until  the  flat  deck  was  turned  to  a 
gable  roof. 


THE|INLAND  SEA  185 

For  five  breathless  minutes  we  balanced  between 
air  and  water,  and  then  we  were  through  the  inner 
strait  which  turns  the  waters  of  the  Inland  Sea  between 
Mojiand  Shimonoseki  into  one  big  lake,  and  the  coast 
of  the  South  Island  began  to  fall  away.  The  tide 
was  running  less  swiftly  now,  the  ridge  of  our 
gable  roof  sank  slowly  into  the  water,  and  the  little 
steamer  floated  a  white,  flat-roofed,  Moorish  house 
once  more. 

"There  is  nothing,"  said  the  steward,  "for  the  Ijin 
San  to  eat." 

He  had  been  standing  behind  us,  balancing  himself 
on  the  steep  gable  roof,  for  some  while,  but  the  current 
and  the  laws  of  gravitation  had  been  absorbing  all  our 
attention,  and  like  a  true  Japanese  he  was  much  too 
polite  to  interrupt. 

"  There  is  nothing,  nothing,"  said  he,  "  to  eat." 

For  the  rare  missionary,  or  the  rarer  tourist,  who 
patronises  the  coasting  steamer  of  the  Inland  Sea 
comes  provided  as  for  an  Arctic  expedition. 

"  But  we  shall  eat  Japanese  food,"  we  explained. 

He  bowed,  a  low,  polite  bow,  but  I  do  not  think  he 
believed  us.  Then  he  went  away,  and  returned  bearing 
foreign  cups  with  saucers,  full  of  a  hot  brown  liquor 
called,  he  told  us  triumphantly,  "coffee."  It  was  of 
the  kind  bought  ready  mixed  in  cakes,  and  made  with 
hot  water.  We  were  pleased  to  know  it  was  coffee, 
and  the  attention  touched  us,  still,  Japanese  tea  would 
have  tasted  better.  We  thought  the  pinky-brown 
soup  flavoured  with  orange  peel,  the  fried  fish  with 
chestnut  preserve,  the  custard  stuffed  with  shrimps, 
and  the  bowls  of  rice  eaten  with  salted  plums  and  spiced 
roots  off  which  we  dined  infinitely  preferable  ;  and  the 
steward  who  fanned  us  with  one  hand,  and  served  us 


1 86       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

with  the  other,  saw  that  there  was  "  something  for  us 
to  eat." 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  we  climbed  the  steep  ladder 
which  led  to  our  Moorish  roof,  eight  o'clock  on  a  July 
evening,  and  already  the  tall,  deep-dented  mountains 
of  Kyushu  lay  dark  and  indistinct.  They  lay  cut  sharp 
against  a  twilight  sky  as  though  they  had  no  thickness. 
And  slowly  the  coast-line  fell  away  grey  into  the  sea. 
Kyushu  was  dying  as  the  ship  and  sun  moved  on, 
Shikoku  was  but  a  blur  upon  the  ocean,  and  between 
them  the  open  sea  made  a  pathway  to  the  sky,  all 
silver-grey  and  trembling,  a  road  of  light  to  that  sunken 
light  beyond. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  fleeting  twilight  of  the 
East  was  night  already.  Japan's  green  hills  were 
turning  grey.  Night  held  sky  and  islands  fast,  but 
the  pathway  shone  and  trembled  until  it  died  in  the 
last  long  streaks  of  light  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 
Night  was  come. 

From  Kobe  to  Shimonoseki  stretch  the  two 
hundred  and  forty  miles  of  the  Inland  Sea  ;  and  in  it 
are  gathered  together  most  of  the  islands  of  Japan. 
Continuous  as  a  mainland  the  coast  of  the  big  island 
runs  down,  while  on  the  other  side  Kyushu  and  Shikoku 
with  ancient  Awaji,  the  first-born  of  the  Gods,  dip 
their  high  green  mountains  in  the  sea  ;  between,  in 
lines  and  clusters,  lie  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
baby  islands  ;  some  large  enough  to  hold  a  village, 
others  too  small  for  a  single  house  ;  some  green  with 
trees  and  rice-fields,  others  a  mere  speck  of  rock 
reaching  up  out  of  the  water.  From  morning  until 
night  we  sat  under  the  striped  awning  of  our  roof  top, 
and  watched  as  they  glided  past,  green  islands  on  the 


THE  INLAND  SEA  187 

blue  water  ;  and  always  on  our  left  hand  the  tall,  deep- 
dented  mountains  of  the  mainland  ran  on  and  on. 

In  the  morning  sunlight  Miyajima's  granite  tori 
stood  knee-deep  in  the  pale  blue  waves.  Its  temple 
roofs  were  brown  against  the  dark,  green  pines,  and 
the  sacred  island,  where  neither  Birth  nor  Death  may 
come,  slept  blue-black  with  shadows  in  the  dawn. 

And  still  they  glided  by,  the  green  islands  on  the 
blue  water.  The  sun  travelled  up  the  sky ;  it  grew 
hot — hotter. 

At  mid-day  we  had  reached  the  narrow  channel, 
where  mainland  and  island  are  so  close  that  the  sea  is 
but  a  canal  between  the  houses  ;  and  the  children  of 
the  two  villages  throw  stones  across  the  stream. 
Here,  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  a  great  stone  lantern 
stands  deep  in  the  idle  water.  Then,  abruptly,  as  we 
turned,  the  canal  was  gone ;  and  the  wide,  blue  sea 
lay  shimmering  among  the  green  islands  in  the 
summer  sun. 

Under  the  striped  awning  of  our  roof-top  it  was  cool, 
but  outside  the  sun  was  smiting  sea  and  land,  until 
sea  and  islands  quivered,  quivered,  losing  themselves, 
colour  and  outline,  in  one  mist  of  shimmering, 
shadowy  blue.  And  the  ship  and  the  sun  travelled  on. 

Five  sturdy  naval  cadets  shared  our  luncheon  with 
us,  and  knew  the  number  and  the  tonnage  of  England's 
smallest  gunboats,  and  for  all  their  blue  uniform  and 
"  foreign  "  dirk,  their  Sayonara  as  they  left  us  were 
courteous  with  an  old-time  courtesy. 

And  the  sun  grew  hot  and  hotter.  The  light  like 
a  mist  wrapt  sea  and  islands  round.  The  continuous 
quivering  hurt.  On  the  other  side  the  deep-dmted 
mountains  of  the  mainland,  grown  bare  and  scraped 


1 88       SCENES  IN  RAIN  AND  SUNSHINE 

now,  caught  the  sunshine  on  their  rocky  patches,  and 
sent  it  in  glittering  arrows  of  light  across  the  still  air. 
And  yet  in  the  brown  villages,  at  the  mountains'  feet, 
the  blue-tuniced,  brown-legged  peasants  were  working 
in  the  sun  ;  and  at  each  stopping-place  the  bare- 
headed men  and  women  came  off  in  boats  to  offer  their 
fruit  and  sake  in  long-handled  fishing-nets,  scent-bottles 
full  of  sake  flavoured  with  plum-blossom,  sake  flavoured 
with  chrysanthemum  or  peach-blossom,  white  rice, 
"  woman's  "  sake^  sake  to  ward  off  old  age,  or  all  and 
any  of  the  nine  different  kinds  of  sake  for  which 
Tomotsu  is  famous,  and  all  in  scent-bottles,  artistically 
tied  up  and  labelled,  and  costing,  bottle  and  all,  is-sen. 
One  old  lady  was  highly  indignant  when  after  much 
excitement  we  had  contrived  to  haul  up  in  the  fishing- 
net  the  exact  scent-bottle  we  coveted,  and  had  sent 
her  down  one  sen  in  return,  for  the  patois  of  the 
district  makes  is-sen  of  jis-sen  (10  sen  =  2^.),  to  the 
unaccustomed  ear. 

And  the  ship  and  the  sun  travelled  on. 

As  the  shadows  grew  the  quivering  ceased,  the 
light  no  longer  like  a  veil  of  darkness  hid  the  land  and 
sea.  The  islands  grew  a  gradual  green,  as  they 
drowsed  on  the  clear  blue  water.  And  slowly  the  still 
sea  opened  wider  ;  the  islands  passed  more  slowly  until 
they  ceased  to  pass  at  all ;  and  then  on  the  blue  water 
there  grew  that  indefinite  look  of  ocean  space.  The 
Inland  Sea  was  ending.  Away  on  the  still  sweep  of 
waters  lay  Awaji,  the  First-born  of  the  Gods,  the  Eden 
of  Japan. 

"  And  when,"  says  the  legend,  "  the  first  man  and  the 
first  woman  met  after  they  had  journeyed  round  a 
pillar  set  upon  the  land  the  woman  cried,  '  How  joyful 


THE  INLAND  SEA  189 

a  thing  it  is  to  meet  a  lovely  man  ! '  Whereupon  the 
man,  displeased  that  language  had  been  invented  by  a 
woman,  required  the  circuit  to  be  made  again,  that  he 
might  speak  first.  So  again  they  journeyed  round  the 
pillar,  and  again  they  met,  and  loudly  the  man  cried 
out,  '  How  joyful  a  thing  it  is  to  meet  a  lovely  woman  ! ' 
And  thus,"  says  the  chronicle,  "  was  Speech  invented, 
and  the  Art  of  Love  and  the  human  race  begun." 

Dim  grey  on  a  grey  sea  lay  Awaji ;  before  us  stretched 
the  broad  sweep  of  the  landless  ocean  ;  the  Inland  Sea, 
dreaming  among  its  islands,  lay  behind. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 


"  That  which  I  saw  seemed  to  me  a  smile  of  the  Universe." 

"  Paradiso,"  canto  xxvii. 


ACROSS  THE  LAGOON 

WE  sat  still  on  the  deck,  with  our  backs  propped 
against  portions  of  the  ship's  cargo,  and  watched. 

It  was  necessary  to  sit  still,  for  a  rise  of  only  a  few 
inches  would  have  sent  the  awning  over  our  heads 
into  the  blue  waters  of  the  lagoon  ;  and  each  newcomer, 
as  he  stepped  from  the  wharf  on  to  this  Kensington 
Garden  craft,  doubled  himself  in  two  and  stayed  so. 
First-class  passengers  lay  flat,  for  a  square  hole  in  the 
side  of  the  boat  opened  into  a  three-feet-high  saloon 
elegantly  carpeted  ;  we  had  matting.  When  the  first 
half  of  the  passenger  was  inside,  a  big-headed  boy 
removed  his  gheta  and  piled  them  up  on  the  deck,  re- 
shoeing  him  in  the  same  way  when  he  emerged.  The 
difficulty  of  extracting  foreign  boots  in  this  manner 
would  alone  have  deterred  us  from  using  our  first- 
class  tickets ;  and  then  the  deck  passengers  under 
the  awning  had  at  least  six  inches  more  room, 
besides  ventilation.  So  we  sat  on  the  matting  and 
watched. 

Anything  out  of  a  toy-shop  so  tiny  as  this  absurd 
little  steamer  was  never  seen.  She  might  with 
generosity  have  been  fifteen  feet  long ;  yet  she 
carried  some  twenty  passengers  besides  cargo  down 
the  lagoon  and  up  the  river,  from  Matsu6  to  Shobara, 


194  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

with  safety   and  Oriental  speed  ;  and  did  it  twice  a 
day  too. 

The  carpeted  saloon  was  reasonably  filled  with  half 
a  dozen  passengers  ;  the  deck  overflowed  with  the  rest. 
The  brown-skinned,  bullet-headed,  ugly,  good-natured 
Japanese  peasant,  sitting  on  his  heels  with  his  dark 
blue  kimono  tucked  up  above  his  brown  legs,  and  his 
fan  in  his  hand  ;  or  his  little  wife,  wrinkled  and  meek, 
her  white  cotton  towel,  with  its  bamboo  design  in  blue, 
folded  round  her  head  and  tucked  up  under  her  hair 
behind  in  something  between  a  night-cap  and  a  sun- 
bonnet  ;  quiet  and  sweet,  but  never  abject,  and  always 
respected.  Here  and  there  a  shopkeeper  or  a  clerk, 
or  some  one  from  the  town  in  a  grey  kimono,  with  a 
face  pale  yellow  against  the  other's  brown.  We  all 
sat  bare-footed  on  the  matting  to  keep  it  clean,  with  our 
gheta  in  our  hands,  fanning  ourselves  with  rice-paper  fans 
decorated  with  storks  flying  across  the  moon,  or  sprays 
of  plum-blossom  or  pine-trees,  each  man  of  us  showing 
his  well-turned  leg  and  thigh,  with  all  the  muscles 
brought  into  strong  relief  by  the  weight  of  the  body  on 
the  toes.  All  polite,  all  amused,  all  conversational. 

After  a  great  deal  of  snorting  on  the  part  of  our 
very  small  steamer,  we  casually  left  the  wharf  and  shot 
into  the  lagoon.  Matsue,  hidden  by  the  sunlight,  dis- 
appeared ;  and  even  the  wide  sweep  of  waters  wavered 
indistinct  beneath  the  hard  glitter  of  the  morning  light. 
It  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock,  and  already  the  distant 
blue  shore  was  blurred  with  the  shimmering  heat,  and 
the  near  green  one  fitful  with  the  scissor-grinding  of 
the  semmi.  The  heat  was  dropping  down  on  the  world 
with  the  swiftness  of  a  tropical  night  and  the  glitter 
of  it  hurt. 

Away  over  the  surface  of  the  waters  a  red-brown 


ACROSS  THE  LAGOON  195 

head  floated,  lazy,  the  nimbus  of  straw  hat  against 
the  light  glowing  yellow  as  a  halo.  Slowly,  idly,  the 
head  moved  over  the  water,  suspended  between  blue 
and  blue.  Too  hot  to  doubt  or  question  or  deny,  I 
accepted  the  head  and  shut  my  eyes,  only  to  find  on 
opening  them  again  two,  three,  a  dozen  heads  strolling 
slowly  over  the  lagoon. 

"  Honourably  please  to  understand,  dredging  for 
mussels,"  said  a  voice  at  my  elbow.  And  the  pas- 
sengers repeated  the  information  in  a  sort  of  Greek 
chorus  with  many  bows. 

Matsue's  only  representative  of  the  vast  world  of  the 
Ijin  San  is  one  missionary ;  but  these  peasants,  with 
the  refinement  of  true  breeding,  accepted  our  out- 
landish dress  and  faces,  our  boots  on  their  matting 
too,  without  a  stare  of  curiosity,  although  when  our 
attention  was  apparently  absorbed  elsewhere,  the 
whiteness  of  our  skins,  the  aristocratic  bridge  of  our 
noses  (it  is  only  the  noblesse  in  Japan,  and  not  all  of 
them,  who  possess  an  aquiline  nose),  were  commented 
on  with  interest  and  admiration. 

The  near  green  shore  ran  in  and  out,  and  in  and 
out,  wooded  thick  with  the  slim  green  fingers  of  the 
bamboo,  until  it  opened  into  a  tiny  green  bay,  with 
a  thin  bamboo  landing-stage  running  out  into  the 
silent  water.  Here  we  stopped  with  such  an  amount 
of  "ay-aying"  on  the  part  of  the  captain — a  short 
man  in  a  grey  kimono,  who  sat  in  a  hole  in  the 
deck  the  other  side  of  the  funnel  reading  Chinese 
poetry — and  the  crew,  a  tall  youth  in  "foreign" 
trousers,  who  greased  wheels,  that  we  might  have 
been  an  Atlantic  liner  approaching  an  unknown 
shore.  There  were  no  passengers  for  the  invisible 


196  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

village  behind  the  landing-stage  but  the  captain, 
who  climbed  over  the  side  of  the  boat  up  on  to  the 
landing-stage,  and  disappeared. 

By-and-by  from  out  of  the  green  there  came  a 
charming  little  figure  in  a  sea-blue  kimono,  lined  with 
lacquer-red,  followed  by  a  maid  bearing  neatly  matted 
parcels.  The  crew  wiped  its  hands  and  moved  for- 
ward, while  the  sea-blue  kimono,  kneeling  on  the  land- 
ing-stage, handed  down  the  parcels  on  to  the  boat  for 
safe  carriage  to  Shobara.  They  seemed  to  require 
quantities  of  explanation  those  parcels,  accompanied 
by  irrepressible  giggles,  principal  giggles  on  the  part 
of  the  mistress,  and  secondary  giggles  on  the  part  of 
the  maid ;  while  the  crew  listened,  replied,  grew 
eloquent.  It  was  one  of  the  most  effective  flirtations 
I  ever  saw,  but  alas !  conducted  in  that  Izumo  dialect 
so  hard  for  the  Tokyo-taught  foreigner  to  understand. 
And  it  went  on  like  the  hum  of  the  semmi,  while  the 
water,  the  world,  and  the  boat  drowsed  in  the  heat. 

Suddenly,  from  out  of  the  nowhere,  appeared  our 
captain,  who  swung  himself  down  from  the  landing- 
stage  on  to  the  boat  as  imperturbably  as  a  stone 
Buddha.  The  sea-blue  kimono,  still  on  its  knees  at  the 
edge  of  the  water,  swayed  in  one  last  enchanting 
giggle  that  showed  all  the  lacquer-red  linings  in  a 
quiver  of  flame,  while  the  supplementary  giggles  of  the 
stout  little  maid  followed  us  regretfully  out  of  the  bay. 

With  more  "ay-aying"  we  shot  back  into  the  hard 
glitter  of  the  lagoon.  The  captain  retired  to  his  hole 
and  his  Chinese  poetry,  the  crew  had  completely  dis- 
appeared, but  the  big-headed  boy,  emerging  from  some 
unknown  region  behind  the  captain,  carried  out  a 
hibachi  and  a  kettle.  He  set  the  kettle  on  the  brass 


ACROSS  THE  LAGOON  197 

tripod  over  the  hibachi  and  blew  up  the  charcoal  fire 
with  a  large  fan  ;  and  we  all  watched  him  with  interest 
as  he  made  Japanese  tea  in  a  green  china  teapot, 
rather  larger  than  the  kettle,  with  a  black  handle  and 
with  dividing  lines  of  black  separating  the  green  into 
leaf-like  petals.  At  this  we  all  sat  up,  thirstier  with 
anticipation,  and  the  little  china  bowls  filled  from  the 
green  kettle-teapot  vanished  from  the  tray.  Then 
the  big-headed  boy  handed  round  manju  cakes  (like 
boiled  chestnuts  in  a  white  coat  of  sweet  rice-paste), 
and  collected  payment,  one  sen  (a  farthing).  We  all 
promptly  demanded  more  tea,  and  the  little  bowls 
were  filled  and  refilled  until  the  green  kettle-teapot  ran 
dry  ;  and  we  all  subsided  again.  Only  the  ttnk,  tink, 
of  the  metal  pipes,  knocking  out  the  glowing  wad  of 
tobacco  on  to  the  deck  in  order  to  light  a  fresh 
pipeful  from  the  burning  remains  of  the  old  one, 
broke  the  drowsy  silence.  Three  little  whiffs  and  the 
acorn  bowl  of  a  Japanese  pipe  is  empty,  so  the  tink, 
link,  of  the  metal  on  the  deck  was  rhythmic  as  the 
vee-iim  of  the  semmi.  They  were  all  smoking,  men 
and  women,  and  the  scent  of  the  bright  brown 
tobacco,  fine-cut  as  hair,  lay  under  the  awning. 

The  near  green  shore  ran  in  and  out,  and  in  and 
out,  until  all  the  wide  sheet  of  glittering  light,  spread 
over  the  blue  waters,  lay  behind  us  ;  in  front  a 
bright  green  bank  of  rushes  hemmed  in  the  light. 
The  lagoon  was  ended,  and  still  we  went  on,  seemingly 
with  the  intention  of  stranding  ourselves  among  the 
bulrushes.  But  the  bulrushes  stood  back  as  we 
came  on,  and  ranging  themselves  on  either  hand, 
left  a  water  pathway  down  which  we  went,  until 
the  bank  of  rushes  following  the  lagoon  lay  far 


198  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

behind,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a  narrow  river  that 
seemed  half  natural  stream  and  half  artificial  canal. 

Ourunnautical  captain,  who,  ever  since  we  had  entered 
the  rushes,  had  been  intoning  directions  to  the  invisible 
crew  as  though  he  were  reading  poetry  aloud,  got  up 
out  of  his  hole.  The  tink>  link,  of  the  metal  pipes  on 
the  wooden  deck  died  gradually  away  as  each  smoker 
knocked  out  his  last  wad  of  tobacco  and  put  away  his 
pipe.  Then  with  a  sudden  and  terrific  snort  the  absurd 
little  steamer,  an  end  in  either  bank,  stood  still.  The 
big-headed  boy,  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
kicked  violently  with  his  heels,  while  the  unexpected 
apparition  of  the  crew's  head  rose  up  at  our  feet.  The 
head  took  a  look  round  and  sank  again,  and  the  engines 
rattled.  Still  with  an  end  in  either  bank,  and  with  the 
big-headed  boy  clasping  the  gunwale  in  his  arms,  we 
proceeded  to  turn  slowly  round,  and  then,  assisted  by 
several  ropes  and  several  haulers,  to  back  majestically 
into  the  main  street  of  Shobara. 

Our  journey  was  ended.  The  big-headed  boy,  leav- 
ing the  gunwale,  rushed  to  reshoe  the  first-class  passen- 
gers as  they  wriggled  from  the  saloon  on  to  the  road- 
way. The  bullet-headed  peasants  and  their  little  brown 
wives  bowing  low  bows  to  each  other,  the  captain  and 
to  the  Ijin  San,  took  up  their  bundles  and  trudged 
off,  while  we,  like  a  Royal  arrival,  were  received  by 
the  authorities  of  Shobara,  in  the  person  of  a  fierce 
little  policeman  in  a  new  white  suit,  and  duly  escorted 
the  three-and-a-half  paces  from  the  ship's  side  to  the  tea- 
house door  in  a  procession,  the  people  lining  up  the  way. 
And  the  last  we  saw  of  that  absurd  little  steamer, 
as  we  turned  into  the  tea-house,  was  a  glimpse  of  the 
crew  looking  down  the  funnel,  while  the  big-headed 
boy,  standing  amidships,  handed  out  the  cargo  to  its 
owners  on  either  bank. 


II 
TO  KIZUKI 

THE  green  earth  lay  burning  in  the  sun,  wrapt  round 
and  round  with  heat.  Between  the  tall  blue  lines  of 
hills  it  stretched,  the  flat  green  floor  of  a  deep  blue 
cavern,  whose  roof-top  was  the  sky.  And  through  the 
green  the  long  white  road  ran  out  of  sight.  The  only 
living  thing  that  moved  was  the  running  kurumaya, 
all  else  lay  sleeping  in  the  bright  night-time  of  heat, 
a  heavy  drugged  sleep  that  neither  rested  nor  refreshed. 

Inert  the  green  earth  stretched  between  the  blue 
hills,  weighed  down  with  heat ;  a  palpable  heat  through 
which  we  moved  as  a  fish  moves  through  water;  a 
visible  heat  which  was  lying  there  heavy  on  the  land, 
floating  round  the  blue  hills,  quivering  against  the 
white  sky,  humming  in  the  still  air,  rolling  in  great 
drops  down  the  bronzed  back  of  the  kurumaya,  drows- 
ing me  to  sleep  as  with  the  soft  waving  of  a  heated 
fan,  a  heavy,  encompassing  heat  that  stunned. 

And  always  the  white  road  ran  on  through  the  green 
earth,  and  the  long,  straight  lines  of  hills  on  either  side 
shut  off  the  sky. 

Between  the  fields  of  rice,  here  and  there  among  the 
green,  a  brown-thatched  house  like  an  open  shed  rose 
up,  its  roof  supported  on  the  square  pillars  of  the  four 
corner  posts,  its  walls  rolled  out  of  sight.  And  on  the 


200  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

matted  floor  the  women  and  children  lay  sleeping,  their 
necks  supported  on  a  narrow  stool ;  the  men  stretched 
on  their  backs,  or  lying  prone,  their  heads  between  their 
arms. 

Not  a  living  thing  in  house  or  field,  in  land  or  road, 
was  moving  save  the  running  kurumaya.  Heat  had 
slain  the  world  and  life  itself  was  senseless. 

On  either  side  the  straight  blue  hills  stretched  out 
of  sight,  the  green  earth  lay  like  a  narrow  passage-way 
between  ;  and  on  and  on  we  ran,  until  the  green  floor 
contracted,  and  the  white  road  became  a  broad  still 
street,  where  brown  houses  shut  out  the  hills. 

A  rapid  spurt  through  the  empty  village,  for  a  kuru- 
maya never  stops  except  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  and  we 
arrive  at  the  tea-house.  Dazed,  weary,  and  stiff  with 
two  hours  of  continuous  running,  we  struggle  from 
under  the  shawls  and  wraps  that  keep  out  the  sun,  and 
sink  on  to  the  matting  ;  while  the  crowd  which  has 
grown  no  man  knoweth  how,  from  out  of  an  empty 
village,  stands  silently,  staring.  With  equal  sudden- 
ness a  small  policeman  starts  up  in  front.  He  inquires 
our  names,  ages,  residence  and  destination  ;  orders 
back  the  crowd  with  one  wave  of  his  arm,  commands 
that  we  be  taken  into  an  inner  apartment,  remote  from 
public  gaze  ;  and,  in  short,  declares  we  may  repose  on 
him. 

We  are  taken  into  an  inner  apartment,  a  room  that 
is  almost  cool,  while  the  crowd  drifts  patiently  round 
the  house  trying  to  look  in.  One  little  wide-eyed 
nesan  brings  us  tea,  and  then  house  and  world  sink 
back  into  slumber  again. 

The  nesan,  reluctant,  but  at  last  dismissed,  lies  down 
on  the  matting,  beyond  the  courtyard,  and  falls 


TO  KIZUKI  201 

asleep.  Her  neck  rests  on  a  narrow  wooden  pillow 
that  has  the  curves  of  a  tori ;  she  lies  like  a  long- 
stalked  flower  on  the  ground,  rigid,  quite  graceful. 
Every  fold  of  her  kimono,  every  twist  of  her  hair,  is 
in  place.  She  is  fast  asleep,  unconscious,  perfectly 
tidy,  with  a  neatness  that  has  passed  into  its  essence, 
grace,  and  is  natural  as  the  feathers  to  a  bird. 

We  cannot  sleep,  the  mere  transition  from  the 
greater  heat  outside  to  the  cooler  heat  of  this  open 
matted  space  makes  us  wakeful.  It  is  cooler  here 
actually,  in  degree,  and  imaginatively,  from  the  green 
palms  of  the  baby  garden.  The  garden  of  a  doll's 
house,  which  any  moderate-sized  bath-towel  would 
have  roofed,  yet  with  a  forest  of  dwarf  palm-trees  in 
one  corner,  a  winding  pool  in  another,  the  cool  grey 
outlines  of  a  stone  lantern  to  hold  the  eyes,  and  a 
sense  of  still  greenness,  of  limpid  freshness,  which 
not  rivers  of  water  or  forests  of  giant  trees  could 
more  distinctly  convey.  To  look  at  that  garden 
was  to  take  a  mental  bath  and  drown  out  the  sense 
of  heat.  But  the  heat  itself  remained,  intense  and 
stagnant,  a  heavy  presence  in  the  house  that  permeated 
all  things. 

Out  in  the  courtyard  one  shaft  of  burning  light  shone 
down,  turning  the  cotton  towel  on  its  bamboo  line  to  a 
white-hot  banner,  the  polished  passage  to  a  molten 
pool,  while  the  water  in  the  big  stone  font  was  warm 
as  condensed  steam.  Like  the  flaming  sword  of  the 
Archangel  Michael,  the  shaft  of  burning  light  cut  the 
passage-way  in  two,  and  the  sharp  white-heat  of  it 
seemed  to  cut.  It  was  absolutely  still,  only  the  heat 
moved  awake  in  a  house  and  a  world  asleep. 

Very  slowly  the  little  nesan  sat  up  ;  some  one  had 


202  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

called  her.  A  moment,  and  she  was  on  her  feet,  neat 
as  a  growing  flower. 

"The  kurumaya  awaits,"  she  said,  kneeling  on  the 
matting,  "  when  it  honourably  pleases  the  august  ones 
to  come." 

Then  she  touched  her  forehead  to  the  floor  and 
waited  for  what  it  honourably  pleased  the  august  ones 
to  do. 

They  came,  down  the  polished  passage,  under  the 
flaming  sword  of  light,  out  into  the  open  space  before 
the  tea-house,  where  the  little  policeman  waited  to 
command  them  to  be  packed  into  their  kuruma,  to 
deliver  stringent  orders  for  their  safe  conduct  to  the 
kurumaya,  to  authoritatively  bid  them  the  politest  of 
sayonara. 

The  crowd  had  disappeared,  harangued  out  of 
existence ;  the  village  street  was  empty  as  a  desert, 
the  houses  dead  ;  and  then  the  steep  line  of  blue  hills 
grew  up  on  either  side,  shutting  in  the  sky,  and  the 
long  white  road  stretched  away  through  the  green 
earth. 

Palpable,  visible,  the  neat  lay  over  the  land,  quiver- 
ing against  the  white  sky,  floating  round  the  blue 
hills,  humming  in  the  still  air,  drowsing  me  into  a 
somnambulant  life  that  was  neither  sleep  nor 
waking. 

Between  the  green  earth  and  the  white  sky  the 
telegraph  wires  cut  a  bronze  line  against  the  quivering 
blue  ;  and  the  rows  of  little  birds,  all  sitting  with  their 
tails  to  the  road,  hung  drowsily  there,  rows  on  rows 
of  them.  And  still  the  long  white  road  ran  on 
and  on. 

Beneath  the  short  thick  hair  of  the  kurumaya  the 
heat  gathered  in  wet  patches  on  the  white  scalp,  rolled 


TO  KIZUKI  203 

in  big  drops  over  the  black  head,  trickled  down  the 
bronze  neck,  and  was  wiped  off  with  one  rapid  move- 
ment of  the  blue  cotton  towel,  as  the  running  kurumaya 
sped  swiftly  on  ;  gathered  again,  rolled  again,  trickled 
again,  was  wiped  dry  again  ;  gathered,  rolled,  trickled, 
until  the  automatic  movements,  repeated  and  repeated, 
grew  part  of  Time  itself.  They  were  Time. 

Then  I  awoke.  It  was  as  if  some  one  had  slid  a 
thin  lining  of  fresh  air  along  the  tops  of  the  blue  hills, 
beneath  the  burning  sky.  A  thin,  thin  sheet  of  fresh 
air,  but  the  green  earth  gave  a  great  sigh,  the  kurumaya 
a  little  shake,  and  I  awoke. 

The  peasants  in  their  brown  thatched  houses,  open 
as  a  shed,  were  stirring,  the  naked  red  figures  in  their 
white  cloths  were  moving  down  the  road. 

In  the  fields  the  long  bamboo  poles  that  shot  up  out 
of  the  green  earth  like  masts  were  dipping  up  and 
down,  drawing  water  for  the  thirsty  rice. 

The  little  birds  on  the  telegraph  wires  were  chirping 
sleepily,  flying  off  in  twos  and  threes,  and  settling  down 
again,  audibly  fussing  over  the  laziness  of  their  friends 
and  relations. 

The  bright  night-time  of  heat  was  over  and  gone. 

I  sat  up  in  my  kuruma  and  looked.  We  were 
running  through  green  rice-fields,  under  a  blue  sky. 
And  it  was  a  hot  summer's  afternoon. 


Ill 

IZUMO'S  GREAT  TEMPLE 

"  So  they  made  fast  the  temple  pillars  on  the  nether- 
most rock-bottom,  and  they  made  high  the  cross- 
beams to  the  plain  of  high  heaven  ; "  and  the  god 
Onamuji,  the  "  Master  of  the  Great  Land,"  King  of 
Izumo,  in  accordance  with  his  compact  with  high 
heaven,  entered  into  that  temple  and  dwelt  there. 

So  the  province  of  Izumo  and  the  kingdom  of 
Westernjapan  passed  under  the  rule  of  the  great  Sun- 
Goddess  whose  descendants  endure  to  this  day.  But 
the  Master  of  the  Great  Land,  the  god  Onamuji,  is 
worshipped  from  end  to  end  of  the  Emperor's 
dominions,  and  his  temple  and  his  priests  are  sacred 
as  the  mirror  of  the  Sun-Goddess  in  their  eyes. 

All  through  the  year,  the  pilgrims  in  thousands 
journey  into  Izumo  to  remote  Kizuki,  whose  name  to 
their  ears  is  still  resonant  with  the  beating  (tsuku)  of 
the  pestles  (ki)  which  made  the  foundations  of  that 
first  great  temple  firm  and  everlasting,  while  in  the 
month  of  October  the  immortal  gods  themselves,  from 
every  shrine  throughout  the  land,  come  to  visit 
Onamuji,  and  that  desolate  month  known  in  Japan  as 
kami-na-zuki  (month  without  gods)  is  called  in  Izumo 
alone  kami-ari-zuki  (the  month  with  gods). 


IZUMO'S  GREAT  TEMPLE  205 

At  the  foot  of  the  everlasting  hills  the  temple  stands, 
and  the  far-off  ripple  of  the  Western  Sea,  half  a 
memory,  half  a  dream,  wanders  through  its  sunlit 
courts,  a  sound  to  listening  ears. 

The  long  dark  avenue  of  twisted  trees,  so  old  that 
many  are  almost  limbless,  the  three  giant  tori,  hewn  in 
solid  granite,  lie  behind  us  ;  we  have  reached  the  white 
sunlight  of  the  outer  temple  space,  and  the  scattered 
buildings  of  the  shrine  are  in  front.  Our  landlord,  in 
his  Sunday-best  kimono  of  silver-grey,  leads  the  way. 
He  has  walked,  since  we  left  the  inn,  exactly  three 
paces  behind  us,  while  three  paces  behind  him  came 
our  kurumaya.  In  Kizuki  it  has  not  been  considered 
consonant  with  our  dignity  to  allow  us  to  move  any- 
where without  them. 

Our  landlord,  with  the  profoundest  bow,  moves  on 
in  front.  He  has  a  letter  to  deliver  on  our  behalf,  so 
that  when  we  reach  the  long,  low  building  at  the  end  of 
the  first  enclosure,  an  authoritative  young  priest  in  long 
white  robes  is  there  to  greet  us.  He  wears  a  wonder- 
ful head-dress  of  black  lacquer,  the  model  of  a  meat- 
cover,  tied  on  under  the  chin,  with  two  red  cords  in  the 
manner  of  a  doll's  bonnet ;  but  his  chin  is  human,  not 
inflexible,  so  I  watch  to  see  the  meat-cover  tumble. 
It  never  does,  not  even  when  with  a  low  bow  he  invites 
us  up  the  steep  polished  steps  into  the  room  above. 
We  take  off  our  shoes  and  climb. 

The  room  is  long  and  low,  with  a  "  foreign"  table 
covered  with  a  green  baize  cloth.  There  are  bright 
blue  velvet  chairs,  an  inkstand,  pens ;  just  a  second- 
hand committee-room  greatly  the  worse  for  wear, 
which  impresses  our  landlord,  so  that  his  strangled 
h's  of  admiration  sound  like  paroxysms  of  coughing. 
We  sit  on  the  velvet  chairs  and  wait.  Our  landlord, 


2o6  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

the  letter  and  the  priest  have  disappeared  into  an 
inner  apartment.  And  the  sound  of  much  discussion 
comes  to  our  ears.  "  How  far  are  we  to  be  allowed 
to  go  ?  "  And  then  the  terms  "  learned  Ijin  San"  and 
"  august  sage  "  reach  us.  At  last  they  are  all  agreed. 
The  "learned  Ijin  San"  the  "honourable  teacher," 
the  "  august  sage  "  shall  be  permitted  to  enter  the  very 
Holy  of  Holies  ;  but  the  "  honourable  interior,"  being 
a  woman,  must  not  cross  the  sacred  threshold.  Then 
there  is  a  long  pause  before  the  authoritative  young 
priest  comes  out  and  explains  the  position  to  us.  We 
bow  the  profoundest  thanks  and  follow  him  down  the 
steps,  and  the  reason  for  the  pause  is  evident.  He 
has  changed  his  clothes,  and  is  now  in  the  fullest  and 
most  resplendent  of  sacerdotal  robes. 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  gate  of  the  ita-gaki,  the 
second  enclosing  fence,  stands  the  High  Priest  himself, 
whose  fathers  for  two  thousand  years  have  led  the 
temple  rites.  He  is  the  eighty-second  descendant  of 
the  mythic  Susa-no-wo,  and  is  still  termed  by  many 
Iki-gami,  which  is  the  "  Living  God."  An  old,  old 
man,  whose  face  is  almost  white,  a  mystic  sacred  face, 
quiet  as  the  eternal  smile  of  the  Eternal  Buddha.  He 
wears  a  lacquered  head-dress,  the  most  imposing  of 
meat-covers,  and  his  robes  are  of  white  and  purple 
adorned  with  gold. 

We  pass  within  the  ita-gaki,  and  the  landlord,  the 
kurumaya,  the  crowd  of  other  worshippers  are  left 
behind.  Before  us  rises  the  low  fence  of  the  "jewelled 
hedge,"  which  encloses  the  sacred  shrine  itself.  Again 
before  the  gateway  there  is  a  pause.  The  minor 
priests,  even  our  authoritative  young  friend,  do  not 
enter  here.  It  is  explained  to  us  that  the  "  honourable 


IZUMO'S  GREAT  TEMPLE  207 

interior  "  must  not  pass  within  the  temple.  She  is  a 
woman,  but  it  is  permitted  to  her,  as  the  wife  of  the 
most  "honourable  one,"  to  look  into  the  shrine  from  a 
room  above  the  gateway.  The  High  Priest  removes 
his  sandals,  we  our  shoes,  and  over  the  rounded, 
water-washed,  grey  pebbles,  hot  as  burning  plough- 
shares, we  enter  the  holy  court. 

A  long,  low  wooden  building  is  the  temple,  primaeval 
in  its  form,  the  broad  ends  of  its  roof-tree  sticking  up 
like  pointed  anchors  through  the  roof.  Six  feet  around 
it  on  every  side  the  pebbles  stop,  and  the  space  is 
filled  with  the  whitest,  smoothest  sand.  All  those  who 
go  up  to  the  god  leave  the  mark  of  their  feet  behind. 

Within  the  temple  there  is  nothing  ;  bare  space, 
dim,  obscure  ;  but  the  High  Priest,  reverently  kneeling 
on  the  matting,  creates  the  god.  And  into  that  narrow 
empty  space  the  shadow  of  the  Eternal  Presence  comes. 

Slowly  the  splash  of  the  breaking  waves  drifts  into 
the  stillness,  faint  as  the  whisper  of  God  in  the  heart 
of  man,  a  still,  small  voice.  Over  the  temple  there  is 
peace,  the  peace  of  two  thousand  years,  unbroken, 
sacred.  And  the  dreamy  ripple  grows  a  sound  in  the 
silence.  Faint,  faint,  faint,  is  it  the  song  of  the  limitless 
sea,  the  voice  of  the  peace  and  the  stillness,  or  a 
broken  murmur  of  the  beyond  that  the  listening  pilgrim 
hears  ?  Half  a  memory,  half  a  dream,  it  dies  at  the 
gate  of  the  shrine,  where  the  stir  of  the  world  grows 
loud  ;  yet  the  soul  has  heard,  has  believed. 

Out  in  the  sunlit  court  beyond  the  "jewelled  hedge" 
the  little  group  of  priests  still  wait.  And  as  we  come 
slowly  over  the  hot  round  stones,  our  shoes  once  more 
upon  our  feet,  they  greet  us  with  an  added  respect. 
Even  the  "  honourable  interior,"  whose  sacredness  is 


208  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

but  indirect,  transmitted  through  a  space  of  court  and 
two  open  shoji,  has  become  a  personage. 

The  old,  old  priest,  with  the  face  of  a  Chinese  sage, 
goes  on  in  front.  We  cross  the  second  court  obliquely 
over  the  stone-grey  pebbles,  each  rounded  with  the 
rubbing  of  running  water,  and  enter  another  building, 
the  treasure-house  of  the  temple.  Here  in  a  shaded 
upper  chamber,  where  the  white  sunlight  filters  through 
the  yellow  matting,  a  long  low  shelf  runs  round,  and 
on  it  lie  the  temple's  treasures — relics  of  dead  heroes 
and  of  living  legend.  One  by  one  the  High  Priest 
points  them  out,  and  in  the  thin  frail  voice  of  age  tells 
their  story  :  A  biwa,  a  sword,  some  pieces  of  tattered 
brocade,  the  old,  old  relics  of  Old  Japan.  The  tales 
are  long,  as  the  old  man  tells  them  with  the  slow- 
moving  utterance  of  one  who  has  had  eighty  years  in 
which  to  speak.  But  there  is  a  personal  vibration  in 
his  voice  that  brings  back  the  long  two  thousand  years 
of  service  that  he  and  his  have  given  to  the  temple, 
recalls  the  eighty-two  High  Priests,  his  fathers,  who  join 
the  living  man  before  us  to  the  god  Susa-no-wo,  from 
whom  the  Great  Master,  Onamuji  himself,  descended. 

All  this  time,  the  authoritative  young  priest  has 
been  respectfully  but  quite  obviously  waiting  to  show 
us  something.  At  last  he  draws  us  across  the  room  to 
where  a  life-sized  plaster  statue  stands,  the  Sun-Goddess 
herself  in  the  flowing  robes  of  Old  Japan,  a  figure  full 
of  majesty  and  power,  with  round  her  neck  a  string  of 
those  prehistoric  jewels  of  which  the  Kojiki  is  full, 
comma-shaped  polished  jewels  of  jade  and  crystal, 
threaded  on  a  scarlet  string.  And  in  the  loose  sleeves 
of  the  plaster  figure  and  about  the  folds  at  the  neck  are 
touches  of  brightest  red.  A  modern  plaster  statue  of  a 
figure  old  to  unbelief. 


IZUMO'S  GREAT  TEMPLE  209 

And  the  young  man  tells  the  story.  He  is  so  eager, 
so  proud  to  relate  what  has  indeed  become  the  great 
central  fact  of  the  story,  that  who  or  what  the  statue  is, 
or  how  or  why  it  came  there  we  never  hear  ;  but — it  had 
gained  a  prize  at  the  Chicago  Exhibition ! 

And  all  the  rest  of  the  clergy  intone  a  little  chorus  of 
triumph  and  delight.  Even  the  High  Priest  himself 
seems  pleased,  and  a  faint  smile  passes  over  his  face  as 
he  bids  us  examine  the  ticket. 

It  is  quite  true.  From  the  out-stretched  wrist  of  the 
Sun-Goddess  hangs  a  much-worn  ticket,  stating  in 
printed  Roman  capitials  that  "  This  Exhibit  has  won  a 
Prize  at  the  World's  Fair  of  Chicago."  And  the  figure 
stands  there,  in  the  long  low  treasure-house  of  Izumo's 
Great  Temple,  while  the  white  sunlight,  filtering  through 
the  yellow  matting,  falls  on  the  white-robed  priests  who 
serve  a  temple  worshipped  through  two  thousand  years, 
falls  on  the  old  High  Priest  with  the  mystic  sacred  face, 
whose  fathers  stretch  back  into  the  mists  of  Time,  and 
falling,  trembles  on  the  faded  ticket  on  the  arm  of  the 
Sun-Goddess  : 

WORLD'S  FAIR,  CHICAGO. 
This  is  to  certify 

"  If  the  august  sage  will  honourably  please  to 
descend." 

And  we  descended. 

In  the  hot  still  court  the  High  Priest  takes  his  leave, 
with  long  polite  phrases  of  strictest  ceremony.  The 
authoritative  young  priest  who  escorts  us  back  through 
the  ita-gaki  into  the  outer  court  is  equally  ceremonious, 
and  our  polite  Japanese  is  heavily  taxed  to  keep  up  with 
him.  At  theouter  court  he  bids  us  say onara,  and  our ^  land- 
lord and  our  kurumaya,  who  have  been  respectfully  wait- 


2io  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

ing,  form  into  procession  again.  We  have  become 
great  personages  in  their  eyes,  very  great  personages 
indeed ;  and  the  pilgrims,  kneeling  before  the  shrine 
in  the  outer  court,  look  at  us  with  reverence.  We 
have  entered  the  Holy  of  Holies,  we  have  visited  the 
god  Onamuji  in  his  shrine. 

It  is  with  the  lowest  of  bows  that  our  landlord  leads 
us  out  of  the  side  of  the  temple  court,  westward,  to  where 
the  tall  dark  trees  of  the  mountain  have  grown  down 
into  the  plain.  Here,  set  in  the  silence  of  the  crypto- 
merias  at  the  foot  of  the  everlasting  hills,  is  the  home 
of  the  High  Priest.  So  still,  so  ordered,  so  spotless, 
the  house  and  garden  lie  like  a  snowdrop  in  a  forest. 
And  the  sound  of  the  sea  drifts  in  as  we  stand. 

Then  for  the  last  time  we  cross  the  courtyard  where 
the  pilgrims  are  praying  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
temple  dancing  girls,  dim  figures  in  the  distance, 
glide  round  and  round  in  the  long  slow  circles  of  the 
sacred  kagura.  Court  and  temple  are  burning  in 
the  sunlight.  Beyond  the  "hedge"  and  the  "jewelled 
hedge  "  the  great  beam-ends  of  the  roof-tree  rise  out 
through  the  temple's  thatch.  Within  the  shrine 
hangs  the  mirror  of  the  great  Sun-Goddess.  For  the 
heart  of  man,  says  the  Shinto  faith,  is  good  and  pure. 
And  even  as  this  mirror,  when  undimmed,  reflects  the 
sun,  so  in  the  tranquil  soul  God's  self  is  imaged. 

Over  temple  and  courtyard  there  is  peace  ;  the 
peace  of  long  centuries  dead ;  the  peace  of  enduring 
belief.  Down  from  the  mists  of  the  past  the  teaching 
comes  :  "  Know  thyself;  in  the  stillness  of  peace, 
know  but  thyself,  and  thou  shalt  see  God." 


IV 
KIZUKI'S  BAY 

THE  Sea  of  Japan,  as  it  wandered  down  the  western 
coast,  took  a  sudden  and  unexpected  bite  out  of  the 
land  of  Izumo  ;  and  that  bite  is  the  bay  of  Kizuki. 
It  is  the  tiniest  of  bays,  with  but  half  a  mile  of  sandy 
shore  between  the  two  steep  lines  of  hills  that  run 
straight  out  to  sea  :  green  hills  that  stretch  so  far,  the 
green  has  time  to  grow  a  misty  blue  before  they  curve 
toward  the  water  in  a  deep  blurred  line.  Landwards 
a  length  of  sandy  dune  shuts  out  the  village  street  ; 
and  the  little  bay,  set  between  the  hills,  and  cut  off 
from  the  sea,  lies  like  an  ebbing  lake. 

On  the  sandy  shore  it  is  still  and  cool ;  and  from 
the  dozens  of  Japanese  families  comes  only  the  high 
pitched  laughter  of  the  playing  children.  Kizuki  is 
the  Margate  of  the  West,  and  the  pilgrims  who 
journey  to  its  shrine  stay  to  breathe  its  sea  air,  and 
combine  a  religious  pilgrimage  with  a  summer 
holiday  in  a  manner  so  usual  in  Japan. 

The  big  hotel  under  the  great  north  wall  of  green, 
with  its  ground  floor,  and,  wonder  of  wonders,  two, 
yes — two  storeys,  is  full.  So  full  that  the  landlord  was 
forced  to  tuck  away  his  distinguished  guests  in  a  back 
room  of  the  old  inn  up  the  village  street.  The  square 
two-storied  house,  with  all  its  shoji  pushed  back  and 


212  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

the  contents  and  occupants  of  every  room  exposed  to 
public  view,  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  big  doll's 
house  with  the  door  gone.  And  its  inhabitants  eat, 
drink,  play,  laugh,  sing  with  the  natural  unconcern 
which  we  could  only  reach  secure  behind  brick  walls, 
curtained  windows,  and  Venetian  blinds.  The  un- 
concern is  so  simple,  so  unaffected,  that  the  Yokohama 
foreigner,  feeling  dimly  that  his  own  behaviour  could 
never  be  so  natural  under  such  conditions,  suspects 
"play  acting,"  and  will  sometimes  speak  of  a  "nation 
of  mountebanks "  with  the  scorn  of  a  man  among 
monkeys. 

The  hotel  is  built  just  where  the  blue  beyond 
of  the  Western  Sea,  glowing  between  the  head- 
lands, draws  eye  and  mind  away,  adding  the  unbroken 
curve  of  Infinity  to  the  quiet  lake's  rounded  life. 

The  sun  has  set ;  perhaps  behind  that  great  green  wall 
he  still  drops  swiftly  to  the  horizon,  but  in  Kizuki  there 
is  twilight,  a  luminous  grey  twilight  that  has  no 
shadows,  which,  spreading,  blots  all  colour  from  the 
world.  Between  wall  and  wall  of  hill  the  sky  stretches 
clear  and  green.  The  bay  is  flooded  with  a  golden 
light.  And  there,  a  black  line  from  gold  to  green,  its 
base  in  the  yellow  water,  its  crest  on  the  sunset  sky, 
stands  Kizuki's  second  wonder,  the  third  beauty  of 
Izumo — a  tall  pointed  rock.  For  the  Japanese,  who 
seek  much  more  for  line  than  colour  in  their  beauty, 
glory  in  its  curves ;  and  the  little  bay  of  Kizuki  owes 
its  visitors  not  to  the  purity  of  its  air,  its  fishing,  boat- 
ing, bathing,  or  casino,  but  to  the  beauty  of  its  solitary 
rock  and  the  nearness  of  its  sacred  temple. 

From  shore  to  sky  the  luminous  grey  twilight  climbs. 
The  flood  of  golden  light  is  dead.  The  great  green 
walls  that  make  the  bay  are  dark.  Only  in  the  sky 


KIZUKI'S  BAY  213 

the  faintest  stain  of  colour  lingers ;  and  there  the 
rock's  lone  crest  blots  a  black  line  upon  the  dying 
green. 

My  kurumaya,  in  his  long  parson's  coat  and  waist- 
coat, blanched  the  purest  white,  asks  if  I  have  ever 
seen  a  bay  more  beautiful.  And  all  the  dozens  of 
Japanese  families  stand  looking  out  to  sea,  for  the  cult 
of  the  stone  is  in  their  hearts. 

Slowly  the  luminous  twilight  draws  the  world  in 
Chinese  ink.  It  climbs  the  sky,  and  the  colour  dies  ; 
only  the  sombre  lines  of  rock  are  left. 

The  little  bay  is  grown  a  mystic  kakemono. 


V 
IN  MATSUE 

WE  had  journeyed  in  trains  and  in  steamers,  in  big 
boats  and  in  little  boats,  in  kuruma  and  sampan,  and 
had  reached  the  Land  of  the  Gods — and  the  inn  at 
Matsue". 

Not  the  least  of  our  difficulties  had  been  to  find  that 
inn,  for  our  landlord  at  Kyoto,  on  hearing  we  were 
bound  for  Matsu£,  had  offered  to  make  all  arrangements 
for  us  through  a  "friend  in  the  Prefecture."  And  the 
arrangements  had  been  made,  but  when  we  asked  for 
explanations,  the  address  of  the  friend  or  the  name  of 
our  inn,  he  only  smiled,  a  polite  unexplanatory  smile, 
spread  out  his  hands  with  ceremony,  and  bowed.  All 
was  "yoroshi" 

With  this  much  information  we  had  started,  with  this 
much  and  no  more  we  had  arrived.  The  baby  steamer 
ran  alongside  the  wharf  at  Matsu6,  her  first-class  pas- 
sengers wriggled  out  of  her  cabin,  her  deck  passengers 
crawled  from  under  the  awning ;  and  we  sat  still,  our 
luggage  piled  around  us,  wondering  if,  like  the  Peri  at 
the  Gates  of  Paradise,  the  Land  of  the  Gods  would 
admit  us  or  not. 

Just  then,  when  the  pause  had  become  really  embar- 
rassing, a  white-uniformed  policeman  boarded  the 
steamer  ;  with  much  ceremony  he  announced — under 


IN  MATSUE  215 

the  circumstances  he  could  hardly  have  inquired — that 
we  were  the  Ijin  San  from  Kyoto.  We  assented,  and 
he  promptly  led  us  outside,  where  a  tall,  loose-jointed 
Japanese,  with  a  Red  Indian  face  hatcheted  out  of 
iron  wood  and  wearing  "  foreign  "  clothes,  stood  wait- 
ing. The  white-uniformed  policeman  politely  per- 
formed the  ceremony  of  introduction,  and  stood 
aside.  This  was  the  friend  from  the  Prefecture  ;  and 
once  we  had  thoroughly  and  properly  and  cere- 
moniously replied  to  this  fact,  which  took  time,  our 
friend  from  the  Prefecture,  who  had  the  smile  and  the 
teeth,  and  the  difficulty  in  concealing  them,  of  the 
famous  Mr.  Carker  (only  he  was  amiable),  introduced 
our  landlord,  a  little,  bright,  black  squirrel  of  a  man 
grasping  an  immense  umbrella.  More  ceremony  of 
course,  while  the  crowd  gathered  round  and  the  police- 
man patrolled  the  group.  We  were  personages.  One 
gesture  from  the  amiable  Carker  of  Matsue  Prefecture 
and  hvekurumaya  burst  through  the  crowd,  while  twice 
as  many  assistants  rushed  off  to  bring  out  our  luggage 
under  the  eagle  eye  of  the  policeman ;  and  with  his 
personal  assurances  as  to  our  safety  and  comfort  in  Mat- 
sue, we  and  our  luggage  were  packed  into  three  kuru- 
ma,  the  amiable  Carker  and  the  black  squirrel  of  a 
landlord  climbed  into  two  more,  and  the  procession 
started.  The  policeman  saluted  ;  the  crowd,  at  the  most 
respectful  distance,  silently  stared  ;  Matsue  received 
her  visitors  as  the  most  distinguished  of  strangers. 

The  kurumaya,  uplifted  with  pride,  tore  along  at 
the  top  of  their  speed  in  the  exact  centre  of  the  road, 
and  the  traffic  scattered  before  us.  We  did  not  run, 
we  flew,  over  the  stone  bridge  built  just  where  the 
canal  ends  and  the  lagoon  begins,  up  the  long,  long 
street  parallel  to  the  lagoon,  then  a  dive  to  the  left 


216  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

over  a  canal  bridge,  a  dash  through  a  green  turning, 
another  dive,  another  bridge  over  another  canal,  and 
with  the  most  imposing  clatter  we  tore  into  a  gravel 
court  in  front  of  the  inn,  and  pulled  up  short  in  the 
recess  of  the  entrance.  In  an  instant  the  shoji  slipped 
aside  and  three  women  in  dark  blue  kimono  were 
bowing,  knees  and  forehead,  on  the  polished  wood. 
We  had  reached  the  inn  at  Matsue. 

The  three  figures  got  up,  as  we  left  our  shoes  on  the 
long  thick  block  of  rough-hewn  granite  which  forms 
the  front  door-step  between  the  gravel  and  the  house, 
and  led  us  in  a  long  procession  to  an  open  matted  space 
in  the  garden.  This  was  our  room.  It  had  but  half  a 
wall,  where  the  tokonoma  stood  ;  the  other  half  was  open 
shoji,  leading  to  the  house,  and  two  square  pillars  at 
the  corners  supported  the  roof.  Here  we  all  subsided 
upon  the  kneeling-cushions  in  the  strictest  order  of 
precedence,  based  on  nearness  to  the  tokonoma.  Our 
black  squirrel  of  a  landlord  and  the  amiable  Carker  of 
the  Prefecture,  who  had  also  arrived,  sat  on  their  heels 
with  great  ceremony,  though  the  "  foreign  "  clothes  of 
our  friend  from  the  Prefecture  got  sadly  in  his  way, 
and  then  the  interchange  of  polite  phrases  began.  It 
was  exhaustive,  for  they  were,  oh  !  so  ceremonious,  and 
although  two  little  girls  with  goggle  eyes  fanned  us  vigor- 
ously, and  the  blue  waters  of  the  lagoon  filled  what  should 
have  been  wall  in  front  of  us,  we  grew  hotter  and  hotter. 

Then  the  plain  daughter  of  our  comely  landlady 
brought  in  an  immense  white  meat-dish  of  railway- 
buffet  thickness,  and  set  it  down  with  conscious 
pride  before  her  mother.  It  contained  piles  of  chipped 
ice,  which  the  comely  landlady  shovelled  into  minia- 
ture tumblers,  the  size  of  dolls'  tooth-glasses,  with  an 
imposing  iron  ladle.  She  sifted  over  it  white  sugar 


IN  MATSUE  217 

from  a  pie-dish,  and  the  plain  daughter  presented 
it  to  the  company.  The  drink  of  the  Gods  themselves 
was  never  more  divine  !  Though  like  Sam  Weller's 
orthography,  which  "  varied  according  to  the  taste  and 
fancy  of  the  speller,"  you  can  eat  this  drink  or  you  can 
drink  it.  Either  way  is  inelegant,  but  both  are 
delicious. 

It  was  only  by  relays  of  this  amphibious  refreshment, 
which  went  on  as  long  as  there  was  anything  besides 
a  large  pool  of  water  in  the  meat-dish,  that  the  polite 
phrases  flowed,  on  our  part  at  least.  At  last  etiquette, 
even  Japanese  etiquette,  was  satisfied,  and  our  amiable 
friend  from  the  Prefecture  bowed  himself  away. 

The  plain  daughter  removed  the  meat-dish,  not  resist- 
ing to  tell  us  it  was  "  foreign "  as  she  did  so,  and 
retired.  And  we  lay  out  to  cool  upon  the  matting. 

The  lagoon,  the  garden  and  a  green  courtyard 
filled  the  three  sides  of  the  room  where  walls  might 
have  been.  Even  the  shoji  here  had  been  removed, 
for  there  were  no  houses  visible  ;  a  high  green  hedge 
of  thick  bamboo  bounded  court  and  garden,  beyond 
were  the  pale  blue  hills. 

It  was  not  a  room,  it  was  a  nest,  we  lived  as  freely 
in  the  open  air  as  the  birds  or  the  flowers  ;  a  brown 
roof  hung  like  a  sheltering  leaf  above  our  heads,  a  cool 
clean  matting  covered  the  ground  beneath  our  feet,  but 
the  rustle  of  leaves  and  of  rice-fields,  the  restless  hum  of 
insect  life,  the  rippling  rhythm  of  the  wide  lagoon,  the 
whole  stir  of  a  growing  world  was  ours.  We  did  not 
peep  at  it  through  a  window,  we  lay  in  it,  we  were  it ; 
and  it  rippled  and  hummed  and  grew  part  of  us,  for  Pan 
is  not  dead,  in  the  Land  of  the  Gods  he  is  living  still. 

Then  the  comely  landlady  called  us  to  our  bath  ; 


2i 8  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

"the  honourable  hot  water  was  ready,"  and  the  plain 
daughter  assisted  us  out  of  our  clothes  into  our  kimono 
with  an  attention  which,  to  our  sophisticated  code,  was 
embarrassing,  and  led  us  down  a  passage  whose 
wooden  wall  opened  into  the  bathroom.  Here  our 
landlady  received  us.  She  was  just  sliding  down  the 
wooden  plank,  which  shut  off  the  pipe  filled  with  glow- 
ing charcoal  from  the  rest  of  the  bath-tub,  and  looking 
up  she  said  the  bath  was  "  yoroshl" 

The  water  was  positively  bubbling,  at  that  delicious 
temperature  of  no  degrees  which  the  Japanese  love  ; 
but  we  were  not  yet  used  to  literal  boiling,  so  we  de- 
manded cold  water.  And  the  two  little  girls  with  goggle 
eyes  ran  away  to  fetch  it  in  high  wooden  pails  with  stiff 
wooden  handles.  They  ran  out  by  the  wooden  shoji  on 
the  opposite  side,  which  opened  straight  on  to  the  gravel 
courtyard  of  the  entrance,  and  their  dark-blue  kimono 
were  tucked  up  into  their  obi,  showing  the  bright  red 
kimono  underneath.  And  they  were  laughing. 

When  we  demanded  still  more  cold  water  they  laughed 
again.  TheS/inSanhsid  strange  ideasof  baths  evidently. 
At  last,  in  deference  to  their  feelings,  we  desisted. 
The  water  was  no  longer  bubbling,  so  we  pronounced 
it  " yoroshl"  and  they  all  retired. 

The  bathroom  had  a  grey  stone  floor  and  walls  of 
wooden  shoji ;  at  one  end  stood  the  high  barrel-bath, 
and  wooden  buckets,  pails  and  dippers  lay  all  around.  A 
three-foot-high  platform  ran  all  down  one  side  and  ad- 
joined the  passage-way  by  which  we  had  entered  ;  from 
it  one  stepped  into  the  bath,  on  it  one  washed  and  dried 
oneself.  A  bath  in  Japan,  which  is  used  by  all  the 
family  or  hotel  in  succession,  is  not  intended  for  wash- 
ing— that  is  done  outside.  The  two  shoji  walls,  just 
sliding  panels  of  wood,  opened,  one  on  to  the  passage- 


IN  MATSUE  219 

way,  the  other  into  the  front  court,  and  had  no  fasten- 
ings. The  Japanese  have  attained  to  that  sense  of 
modesty  which  we  still  feel  immodest.  They  say  to 
bathe  is  necessary  ;  you  cannot  take  a  bath  with  your 
clothes  on  ;  a  necessary  action  is  never  immodest, 
neither  has  it  any  prurient  attractions  for  healthy 
minds.  But  a  Japanese  cannot  see  the  low-necked 
dresses  of  western  women  or  the  pictures  of  Modern 
France  without  a  blush.  To  him  a  bathing  woman  is 
neither  modest  nor  immodest,  but  simply  indifferent  ; 
while  exposure,  merely  to  attract,  is  indecency  itself. 
Obscenity  exists  in  grosser  minds  as  in  every  country 
in  the  world ;  but  the  people  of  Japan  have  a  moral 
simplicity  of  thought  and  action  that  is  at  one  with 
the  conclusions  of  abstract  ethical  philosophy. 

Like  lobsters  going  to  be  cooked,  we  bathed,  and 
got  out  swiftly  but  not  silently.  A  yard  of  cotton 
towel,  where  a  bank  of  purple  iris  grew  out  of  a  pale 
blue  stream,  was  all  the  towel  we  had.  It  would  have 
adequately  dried  our  finger-nails,  but  the  design  was 
comforting  if  the  towel  was  not.  At  last,  in  grey  crepe 
kimono  and  straw  sandals,  clothes  as  naturally  a  growth 
of  the  climate  and  the  country  as  its  trees  or  people, 
we  went  back  to  our  wall-less  room  and  sat  in  peace. 

The  heat  of  the  day  was  passing,  and  the  colours 
of  the  sky  and  trees  deepened  before  they  died. 
For  light  in  this  land  of  sunshine  can  hide  as  well  as 
darkness ;  it  covers  the  land  as  a  pall,  all  white  and 
glittering,  which  blinds  as  surely  as  the  night.  But 
in  that  half-hour  which  comes  before  the  swift  de- 
scending twilight  of  the  East,  all  the  colours  deepen 
and  intensify  ;  they  take  a  strange  opaque  lustre  which 
makes  the  thinnest  leaf  look  solid.  Mere  colour  seems 
thick,  almost  as  though  distinct  from  what  it  colours 


220  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

and  the  colours  deepen,  deepen,  till,  emerging  from  a 
glittering  pall  of  white,  they  sink  beneath  the  grey- 
black  pall  of  night.  It  is  the  intensest  hour  of  all  the 
day.  The  world  is  not  working  as  at  the  dawn,  nor 
sleeping  as  in  the  heat,  but  strong  with  the  beating 
pulse  of  Life  that  fills  even  the  stillness. 

So  we  sat  and  watched  the  deepening  glowing  earth 
glow  and  deepen,  and  heard  the  throb  of  life  grow 
ever  louder,  till  from  the  streets  came  up  the  sound  of 
children's  laughter,  and  from  the  town  the  stir  of  men. 

Rich  in  richest  colours  lay  the  world,  with  greens  and 
blues  of  polished  jewellery.  And  then  the  hurrying  twi- 
light settled  like  the  swooping  pinions  of  a  bird.  The 
colours  lost  themselves  in  grey,  the  forms  they  coloured 
in  a  broad,  still  sweep  of  darkness.  On  the  white 
bridge,  set  between  canal  and  lake,  the  lanterns  were 
already  glowing,  and  the  indistinct  brown  lines  of  roof 
melted  from  the  light  into  the  darkness. 

For  a  little  while  the  curved  earth-bridge  of  our 
miniature  garden,  the  pebbled  pathway  that  in  a  frag- 
ment of  a  circle  led  across  the  winding  pond,  traced 
a  clear  black  line  against  the  open  sky.  Then  the  chil- 
dren's laughter  in  the  street  grew  silent,  the  stir  of  men 
and  women  stilled. 

Slowly,  among  their  shadows,  the  houses  each  hung 
out  a  light  and  disappeared.  The  purple  darkness  grew 
with  each  moment  deeper  and  more  black. 

Then  in  a  flash  the  shadows  and  the  lights  themselves 
went  out,  for  our  inn  had  lit  her  lamps. 

Then  they  brought  us  dinner  on  black  lacquered 
trays  :  pink  soup  and  many  kinds  of  fish,  and  rice  with 
pickled  cucumbers,  white  and  brown  and  purple.  And 
we  did  eat.  And  all  the  time  our  landlady  and  her 
plain  daughter,  kneeling  on  the  matting,  filled  up  our  rice- 


IN  MATSUE  221 

bowls  from  the  wooden  rice-box,  or  our  tea-bowls  from 
the  china  teapot,  and  the  bronze  kettle  which  filled 
that  teapot  itself  needed  filling  many  times,  for  we 
were  thirsty.  And  the  landlady  and  her  daughter  sat 
placidly  on  their  heels,  watching  our  many  social 
crimes,  for  there  is  an  etiquette  of  chopsticks,  as  strict 
or  stricter  than  ours  of  knives  and  forks,  and  in 
equivalent  terms  we  probably  were  eating  with  our 
knives,  putting  our  dirty  spoons  upon  the  tablecloth 
and  exhibiting  the  general  manners  of  the  stable. 

As  a  sign  that  you  have  finished  in  Japan  you  eat 
your  last  bowl  of  rice  flavoured  with  a  bowlful  of 
tea.  Hardly  had  we  reached  this  stage  when  the 
bright  black  squirrel  of  a  landlord  arrived  to  announce 
a  visitor,  and  "  Might  he  come  in  ?" 

Considerably  surprised  we  said  "Yes,"  and  who 
should  enter  but  our  amiable  Japanese  Carker,  this 
time  in  his  own  clothes.  From  an  insignificant  and 
somewhat  common  individual  he  had,  by  the  mere 
change  from  a  misfitting  yellow  suit  into  a  grey  silk 
kimono  with  striped  silk  hakama,  changed  from  an  un- 
derbred clerk  into  a  courtly  gentlemen.  His  manners, 
always  the  same,  were  now  at  ease  with  himself,  and 
no  longer  incongruous  or  even  somewhat  ridiculous, 
they  became  the  perfection  of  grace  and  breeding.  It 
is  a  change  that  one  may  often  see  in  Japan. 

Again  we  all  sat  on  our  heels  on  the  kneeling- 
cushions  in  the  strictest  order  of  precedence,  and  ex- 
changed the  politest  phrases  of  ceremony  in  the 
courtliest  of  Japanese.  We  heard  all  about  the  great 
Temple  of  Kizuki,  the  pride  of  Izumo,  and  we  told  of 
our  journeys  in  the  Far  East,  to  Korea  and  Siberia  ; 
and  the  landlord's  son,  who  had  come  in  behind  the 
visitor,  "  half  expected  he  might  go  there  some  day 


222  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

with  the  army,"  a  wish  which  may  well  since  have 
been  fulfilled. 

In  true  Japanese  fashion  our  guest  had  brought  us 
presents,  photographs  of  Matsu6  and  of  Izumo's  Great 
temple.  We  could  only  present  him  in  exchange  with 
our  cards,  a  map  of  the  world  with  the  British  posses- 
sions marked  very  red,  and  an  old  copy  of  a  railway 
novel.  The  gifts  pleased  him,  and  the  whole  family 
examined  the  map  with  great  interest.  They  wanted 
to  hear  all  about  England,  and  the  fact  that  cows  and 
sheep  (which  they  have  never  seen)  walked  over  our 
fields,  and  that  it  was  sometimes  light  at  nine  in  the 
evening  struck  on  their  imagination.  They  asked  many 
questions  about  the  sheep,  and  "what  the  light  looked 
like  ? "  which  was  difficult  of  explanation. 

In  spite  of  more  amphibious  drinks  from  the  white 
meat-dish,  which  seemed  served  here  (probably  as  a 
concession  to  our  foreign  tastes)  instead  of  the  inevit- 
able tea  to  visitors,  the  struggle  after  faultless  politesse, 
the  intricacies  of  a  ceremonious  Japanese  made  us 
grow  all  limp  with  heat  again.  And  when  we  had 
bowed  our  last  bow,  uttered  our  last  "  Mata  o-me  ni 
kakarimasho"  ("Another  time  may  my  eyes  honour- 
ably behold  you  "),  we  were  reduced  to  a  really  pitiable 
state  of  exhaustion.  Our  comely  landlady,  who  had  a 
large  brain  and  a  seeing  eye,  did  not  wait  to  question. 
She  cleared  the  room,  sent  the  two  giggling  girls  with 
the  goggle  eyes  to  hang  the  green  mosquito  net,  like 
an  imposing  martial  tent,  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
room,  while  the  plain  daughter  brought  futon  like  thin 
eiderdown  quilts  to  sleep  upon,  undressed  us  carefully 
and  retired,  bidding  us  "  honourably  resting  deign " 
as  she  did  so. 

As  the  lamp  went  out  the  ample  folds  of  the  square 


IN  MATSUE  223 

tent  stood  out  like  a  royal  pavilion.  We  crept  beneath 
and  lay  down  upon  the  matted  sheets  which  covered 
the  futon.  In  deference  to  our  foreign  bones  we  had 
several  futon  underneath  us,  and  one  rolled  up  beneath 
our  heads  ;  but  for  all  that  the  hardness  of  the  matted 
floor,  stuffed  though  it  was,  rose  up  and  hit  us  before 
the  night  was  out. 

We  slept  beneath  our  transparent  tent,  in  our  wall- 
less  room,  as  the  flowers  sleep,  part  of  the  living  night. 
All  the  little  sounds  of  leaf  and  lake  stirred  round  us 
undisturbed  ;  the  rice-ears  rustled  in  the  silent  night ; 
the  great  trees  stretched  their  branches  -as  they  slept. 
Dreaming,  the  waters  of  the  salt  lagoon  moved  towards 
the  sea,  and  all  the  wealth  of  insect  life,  turning  in  its 
sleep,  called  faintly.  The  still  small  voice  of  the  sky 
whispered  softly  in  the  breezes,  and  the  great  green 
Earth  reached  up  to  listen  through  her  dreams.  Bound 
in  the  chains  of  man,  it  is  at  night-time  that  she  stirs 
so  restless,  when  all  the  humming,  conscious  life  is  laid 
to  sleep,  when  men  and  insects  slumber.  Then  the 
green  Earth  wakes ;  but  she  has  endured  so  long  that 
even  in  her  waking  she  is  half  asleep.  Bound  down 
with  streets  and  houses,  she  never  wakes  at  all.  And 
so  all  night  we  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  world.  At 
the  dawning,  when  all  Nature  stands  hushed  before 
the  coming  of  the  sun,  we  slept.  But  the  dawning  in 
this  southern  land  is  short  and  swift.  With  no  clouds 
to  dim  his  strength,  the  sun  soon  sat  flaming  on  his  wide 
blue  throne  ;  and  all  the  insects  of  the  tropics,  warmed 
into  life,  rose  up  to  buzz  and  hum.  And  we  awoke. 

In  the  Land  of  the  Gods  there  are  no  clocks,  and 
although  one  in  the  main  street  of  Matsue  proclaimed 


224  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

its  "  foreign  "  time,  the  inhabitants  beneath  go  their 
own  way,  and  the  baby  steamers  arrive  and  depart  in 
open  disregard  of  the  hours  upon  the  dial.  So  some 
time  between  the  dawning  and  the  noon  we  woke. 
The  house  was  getting  up.  All  the  little  sounds  of 
rising  men  and  women,  of  a  day's  beginning,  were 
about  us,  so  we  got  up  too.  Crawling  from  under  our 
vast  green  tent,  we  went  down  the  polished  passage- 
way to  the  inner  courtyard,  where  in  a  cool  green 
cloister  all  the  rooms  of  the  inn  looked  out.  A  long 
stone  font  filled  with  water,  a  hanging  wooden  dipper, 
a  row  of  shallow  brass  pans  on  a  wooden  shelf  stood 
waiting.  Here  the  whole  inn  washes.  With  water 
from  the  font,  cool  and  fresh  from  its  night's  sleep  in 
the  grey  stone  basin,  you  fill  the  bamboo  dipper  and 
pour  out  into  the  shallow  pans  ;  and  then,  standing  in 
the  passage-way,  with  all  the  rooms  around  you,  you 
wash.  And  unless  a  nesan^  attracted  by  the  whiteness 
of  your  skin,  should  stop  a  moment  to  look  and  wonder, 
no  one  is  interested.  The  usual  lengths  of  cotton 
towelling  hung  beside  the  dipper,  like  banners  on  their 
poles ;  and  a  crevice  of  sunshine  piercing  into  the 
green  courtyard  quivered  on  the  round  brass  pans. 

Tent  and  futon  had  vanished  when  we  returned, 
and  the  two  little  goggle-eyed  girls,  still  with  their 
blue  kimono  tucked  up  to  show  the  red  ones  under- 
neath, were  sweeping  the  matting  with  bamboo  brooms. 
We  dressed  in  corners  unattended,  and  sat  down  to  wait. 

From  the  sounds  of  passing  feet,  and  the  directing 
words  of  our  comely  landlady,  it  seemed  that  great 
things  were  preparing  for  us — quite  what  remained  a 
mystery.  At  last  the  plain  daughter,  bubbling  with 
the  pleasure  of  our  surprise,  came  to  call  us. 
"As  for  the  morning  meal,"  she  said,  "all  is  prepared," 


IN  MATSUE  225 

and  even  the  ceremony  of  her  bows  suffered  from  her 
eagerness. 

We  went  through  the  half-wall  of  shoji  panels, 
across  a  room,  into  another,  where  the  family,  all 
assembled,  almost  (had  it  not  been  entirely  un-Japanese) 
clapped  its  hands  in  pride. 

There  on  the  matting,  and  each  leg  protected  by  a  sup- 
porting slab  of  wood,  stood  a  foreign  table  ;  four  foreign 
chairs,  their  legs  too  nailed  into  long  slats  of  wood, 
stood  round.  Across  a  corner  of  the  table  lay  a  thin 
strip  of  cotton  cloth,  and  on  this,  in  all  the  majesty  of  its 
solid  ugliness,  reposed  the  white  meat-dish  of  our  god- 
like drink.  This  morning  it  was  full  of  something 
smoking,  dimly  resembling  Irish  stew. 

The  comely  landlady  beamed  as  we  approached. 

"  Sea-food  forthcomes,"  she  said  proudly. 

And  to  our  "  foreign"  breakfast  we  sat  slowly  down. 
How  bad  it  was  !  But  the  family,  even  to  the  old,  old 
grandmother,  were  so  delighted,  so  proud  of  their 
unexpected  triumph,  that  we  ate  that  abominable  stew 
till  not  a  fragment  of  its  tough  meat  or  a  spoonful  of 
its  gluey  gravy  remained. 

Many  times  since  have  I  wondered  how  that  Napo- 
leonic landlady  organised  the  feast  ?  How  did  she 
get  the  meat  ?  Who  cooked  it  ?  and  where  did  they 
learn  ?  Did  she  invent  the  recipe  out  of  her  own 
head  ?  Perhaps  she  raided  the  garrison  ?  She  was 
capable  of  it.  There  was  bread  too.  Matsue  was 
quite  in  the  front  of  the  fashion  ;  not  like  poor  Kizuki, 
which  was  sadly  out  of  date ;  they  hadn't  even  blru 
(beer)  there. 

All  this  she  told  us  as  she  helped  us,  always  with 
the  iron  ladle,  to  that  terrific  stew.  With  the  foreign 
food  too,  we  had  "  foreign  "  china,  horrible  railway- 


226  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

restaurant  plates  and  cups,  clumsy  and  thick,  sprawled 
all  over  with  a  large  design  in  bilious  blue ;    knives 
and   forks  that   never   matched,  and,  of  course,  the 
inevitable    cruet.      This    hideous    article    is    always 
the  first  vestige  of  "  foreign "  fashion  in  a  Japanese 
hotel,  where  it  accompanies  every  meal.     Once  it  may 
have  been  of  German  silver  ;  it  is  all  drab  now.    Long 
centuries  of    use  have  left  it  bent  and  dinted.     Its 
bottles  leak,  their   stoppers  never  fit,  and   whatever 
they  once  held,  all  now  drip  oil  and  taste  soy.     We 
thought  of  our   dainty   lacquered    trays,   our  delicate 
white  china  with  drawings  in  faint  blue,  the  refinement 
and  the  art  of  that  meal,  and  we  sighed.     The  fish 
they  could  not  spoil,  and  their  tea  is  always  good,  so 
we  breakfasted.     And  the  plain  daughter,  whose  ambi- 
tions (or  her  mother's)   soared  to  Tokyo  heights  of 
fashion,  asked  if  everything  was  really  "yorvsfo  '  upon 
the  table,  and,   if  not,  "  would  we  show  her   how  ? " 
The  knives  and  forks  had  puzzled  her  woefully  ;  how 
ought  they  to  be  laid  ?     So  we  laid  the  table,  and  we 
set  the  forks,  and  we  placed  the  bread,  and  we  handed 
plates  and  glasses,  and  the  ancient  grandmother  shook 
with  astonishment.     Was  ever  like  seen  under  the  sun  ? 
And  even  the   capable  landlady  exclaimed.      So  the 
conscientious  plain  daughter  worked  through  her  knives 
and  forks,  her  bread  on  this  side  and  her  glasses  on  that, 
with  the  zeal  of  an  earnest  student ;  and  afterwards  we 
caught  her  displaying  her  great  accomplishment  to  a 
circle  of  admiring  friends. 

We  were  to  see  the  sights  of  Matsue\  Our  friend 
from  the  Prefecture  and  the  black  squirrel  of  a  landlord 
had  talked  it  over  exhaustively  the  night  before.  We 
were  catered  for  like  Royal  visitors.  We  did  not  need 


IN  MATSUE  227 

to  plan,  or  ask,  or  seek.     "  Honourably  trouble  not. 
It  happens."     And  it  did. 

That  morning  the  landlord,  in  a  long  polite  speech, 
made  us  over  to  his  son,  a  quiet  clever  lad  who 
might  have  been  the  twin  of  his  plain  sister ;  and 
we  set  off.  We  wished  to  stop  for  many  things, 
temples  and  toy  shops,  the  peeps  of  life  on  street 
and  wharf,  but  our  guide,  though  never  contradicting, 
was  so  preoccupied,  so  intent  on  something  that 
we  gave  in  and  meekly  followed  down  the  long  streets 
over  the  many  canals,  whose  bridges  showed  an 
arch  like  the  young  crescent  of  the  moon,  along  the 
hot  white  road,  until  we  reached  an  ugly  wooden 
building  in  the  style  called  "  foreign,"  all  decorated  with 
flags  and  policemen.  Here  we  entered.  The  police- 
men drew  up  in  line  as  we  passed,  and  the  scurrying 
feet  of  a  dozen  officials  all  clothed  in  long  frock-coats 
came  down  the  vestibule. 

It  was  an  Exhibition  of  the  Arts,  Industries, 
and  Manufactures  of  the  Province  of  Izumo,  and 
quite  inadvertently  we  had  arrived  to  open  the 
proceedings.  The  distinguished  strangers  from 
England,  received  by  the  phalanx  of  frock-coats,  were 
conducted  majestically  through  the  whole  building. 
We  were  not  allowed  to  miss  a  single  room.  If,  after 
peeping  into  one,  and  finding  it  contained  nothing  but 
sacks  of  rice,  or  samples  of  raw  silk,  we  retreated, 
instantly  a  frock-coat  or  a  policeman  appeared  to  lead 
us  round.  We  did  not  miss  the  least  little  exhibit  of 
the  least  little  room.  We  saw  them  all :  bags  of  rice, 
cocoons  of  silk,  hollow  candles  with  growing  designs  in 
faint  pale  colours,  Izumo  crystals  famed  throughout 
Japan,  lengths  of  piece-silk,  twists  of  sewing-silk, 
embroideries,  china,  the  famous  yellow  china  of 


228  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

Matsu£,  all  the  roots  and  grains  and  wood  of  the 
province,  fishing  nets  and  field  tools,  and  a  whole  large 
section  of  the  beautiful  Izumo  matting.  In  our  admira- 
tion we  wished  to  buy,  and  instantly  all  the  frock-coats 
ran  after  one  another,  each  official  going  to  consult  his 
chief.  They  arrived  in  groups  and  talked  ;  they  went 
away  and  came  back  again.  We  had  unknowingly 
placed  the  whole  officialdom  of  Matsue  on  the  horns  of 
a  dilemma.  We  were  the  distinguished  visitors  from 
England ;  we  wished  to  buy  Matsue's  most  especial 
production  ;  the  honour  was  great — but  the  regulations 
said  no  exhibit  might  be  taken  away  before  the  close 
of  the  exhibition  ;  and  the  Japanese  respect  the  law  as 
they  respect  the  Emperor.  So  we  waited.  At  last  a 
most  wonderful  frock-coat  appeared  resplendent  with 
decorations  ;  solemnly  he  made  a  speech  explaining  the 
difficulty,  excusing  the  delay,  expressing  great  honour  at 
our  request,  and  at  a  sign  his  attendant  handed  over  the 
matting  to  our  attendant,  and  with  many  bows  we  parted. 

That  afternoon,  as  we  lay  upon  our  matting  in  our 
wall-less  room,  fanned  by  the  plain  daughter,  our  land- 
lady brought  in  the  local  newspaper,  and  sitting  down 
on  her  heels  she  read  to  us  a  long  account  of  the 
arrival  in  Matsue  of  the  "  distinguished  strangers  from 
England,"  and  a  kind  of  "Stop  Press  telegram" 
announcing  their  gracious  purchase  of  matting  at  the 
exhibition  that  morning,  besides  an  editorial  advertise- 
ment of  a  description  of  their  visit  to  the  exhibition  for 
the  next  issue.  Our  rooms  at  the  inn  were  described 
at  length,  our  appearance  "  with  faces  white  as  milk" 
— the  foreign  simile  showing  great  learning  on  the 
part  of  the  reporter — our  ages  politely  overstated,  for 
the  young  here,  women  as  well  as  men,  desire  to  be 


IN  MATSUE  229 

old  so  that  to  be  thought  older  than  one's  age  is  the 
greatest  of  compliments  ;  the  paper  therefore  called  us 
most  politely  "  upwards  of  forty,"  causing  our  dear 
landlady  to  beam  with  delight,  and  the  plain  daughter 
to  utter  a  long  series  of  those  curious  strangled  "h's" 
by  which  the  Japanese  express  intense  admiration,  as 
she  fanned  us  more  vigorously.  Then,  a  propos  of  our 
"  milk-white  faces,"  the  landlady,  with  much  hesitation, 
asked  a  favour  "  so  great  that  to  speak  unable  am." 
Might  she  have  our  soap  ?  Japanese  soap  they  had, 
but  somehow,  possibly,  that  "foreign"  soap  of  ours 
might  account  for  some  of  our  strange  whiteness.  So 
she  and  the  plain  daughter  retired  with  the  soap  ;  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  they  scrubbed  diligently  in 
the  bathroom. 

And  we  sat  quiet  upon  our  matting  in  the  heat, 
while  the  green  hills  and  the  rice-fields,  the  pebbled 
pathway  of  our  garden  bridge,  and  all  the  wide  still 
spaces  of  the  lake  hung  as  frescoes  round  our  room. 
The  hot  blue  sky  burned  fiercely,  the  blue  of  a  heated 
brick-kiln,  and  our  living  frescoes  hung  motionless  as 
the  work  of  man.  There  was  neither  change  nor 
shadow.  Hills  and  lake  and  rice-fields  lay  still  against 
the  sky — flat  as  it  were  upon  a  flattened  background, 
and  in  that  light  which  did  not  shine  but  suffused  itself 
through  all  things,  there  were  no  shadows,  a  deepened 
blueness  here  and  there,  but  neither  shadow  nor  per- 
spective. The  sense  of  distance,  as  the  sense  of  shade, 
was  quite  annihilated.  Those  old  Japanese  artists  saw 
truly,  despite  our  western  dictums,  light  does  not  lie  here 
as  we  see  it,  still  less  as  it  lies  in  the  actual  tropics ;  it 
has  effects  of  light  and  distance  which  are  all  its  own, 
and  the  Japanese,  seeing  them,  reproduced  them,  not 


230  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

because  there  are  no  others,  but  because  these  are  so 
truly  Japanese.  And  we,  knowing  neither  the  country 
nor  the  climate,  but  strong  in  our  arrogance  of  "  laws," 
called  it  "  false,  a  childlike  art  ignorant  of  science." 

In  the  Land  of  the  Gods  we  sat  and  learnt  wisdom, 
and  Japan  and  its  people,  its  life  and  its  pictures  took 
a  new  meaning  in  our  eyes,  and  the  false  became  true. 

When  our  landlady  and  her  daughter  came  back 
from  the  bathroom  they  brought  a  small  thin  oblong 
of  soap,  and  their  hands  were  all  wrinkled  with 
washing. 

"  Mada  kuro  gozaimas  kara  omachi  nassatta  ho  ga 
yd  gozaimas"  they  said  in  a  melancholy,  half-laughing 
voice.  "  Still  brown  because,  leaving  off  had  best 
be  done,"  and  they  held  out  their  four  hands  for 
inspection. 

The  Ijin  Sans  whiteness  was  not  in  the  soap. 
But  when  we  went  we  left  as  a  present  a  whole  new 
cake  of  "  foreign "  soap ;  and  their  supplementary 
scrubbings  must  have  been  many. 

That  evening  we  were  entertained  by  a  small  boy 
with  the  snubbiest  of  noses,  who  peeped  slyly  at  us 
from  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  garden.  When  he 
was  induced  to  come  in  he  brought  all  his  lesson 
books,  which  he  turned  over  for  our  amusement,  and 
between  each  page  he  chuckled,  but  he  never  told  ust 
why.  Whether  it  was  the  recollections  of  his  lost 
lessons  or  a  subtle  sense  of  absurdity  that  we  could  nor 
read  the  Chinese  hieroglyphics  of  his  primers  we  never 
knew,  but  his  chuckles  were  deep  with  joy.  Then  in 
the  pauses  he  would  count  solemnly  up  to  ten,  all  the 
English  he  knew,  and  chuckle  again. 


IN  MATSUE  231 

Two  wide-eyed  little  maidens  were  brought  in  next 
morning  to  see  the  Ijin  San.  In  a  very  awestruck 
whisper  they  inquired  "  if  we  were  real." 

These  little  babies  were  very  solemn  and  very 
good,  but  not  one  scrap  shy  or  frightened.  In  all  their 
little  lives  they  had  never  met  a  grown-up  being  who 
was  harsh  to  them.  Though  obedience  is  the  first 
requisite  of  Japanese  children  young  or  old,  they  give 
it  as  the  plants  their  flowers,  not  from  a  sense  of  hard- 
learned  duty,  but  as  a  natural  product  of  an  eternal 
law. 

The  babies  made  the  funniest  little  bows  as  they 
touched  their  little  foreheads  to  the  ground.  And 
then  they  sat  and  looked  at  us  with  wide,  wide-opened 
eyes.  To  them  we  belonged  to  the  world  of  the 
mythical  Kirin,  and  the  terrible  Kitsunk  who  takes 
bad  babies  away  and  feeds  them  on  frogs  and 
snails  ;  we  belonged  to  the  realm  of  the  sea-goddess 
who  married  Urashima,  to  the  land  of  the  fairies.  So 
they  asked  if  we  were  real. 

They  could  not  be  induced  to  talk  to  us,  though 
they  were  wonderfully  polite,  and  quite  knocked  their 
little  foreheads  on  the  floor  when  they  said  "  Good- 
bye." Did  we  figure  as  goblins  or  as  fairies  in  their 
dreams,  I  wonder  ? 

That  afternoon  a  stall-owner  from  the  exhibition 
came  to  show  us  Izumo  crystals. 

For  two  hours  he  knelt  upon  the  matting  opening 
the  beautifully  made  boxes  of  white  unpainted  wood. 
And  we  looked  at  large  divining-crystals  without  fleck 
or  flaw,  at  the  pale  clouded  crystals  shading  from  mist- 
white  to  palest  crimson,  at  the  agates  and  amethysts  ; 
and  all  the  time  our  comely  landlady  and  her  plain 


232  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

daughter  sat  on  their  heels  and  admired  with  taste 
and  great  discrimination. 

There  was  not  in  all  this  shopful  of  precious  stones 
anything  to  wear.  A  few  crystal  hair-pins,  a  few 
"  foreign  "  studs,  but  no  jewellery  as  we  understand  it. 
The  Japanese  never  wear  jewellery  ;  neither  rings,  nor 
bracelets,  nor  chains,  nor  pins,  nor  brooches,  nor  tiaras 
— nothing.  One  wonders  how  much  crime  and  heart- 
burning has  the  nation  missed.  Precious  stones  they 
have,  but  they  buy  and  keep  them  for  their  shape 
or  for  their  colour,  as  a  picture  or  a  bronze,  not  to 
adorn  themselves.  All  the  rest  of  the  world,  in  all 
times,  barbarous  and  civilised,  have  fought  and  stolen, 
slain  and  ruined  themselves  just  to  heap  upon  their 
fingers  or  their  heads  strings  of  gleaming  stones. 
In  this  island-empire  alone  men  and  women  have 
looked  at  precious  stones,  have  handled  and  admired, 
but  never  worn  them.  One  wonders  was  it  purely 
the  artistic  instinct  of  the  race  which  kept  them 
from  it,  or  the  stern  morality  of  the  samurai,  preach- 
ing denial  and  self-control. 

And  again  one  wonders  if  too  much  jewellery  be 
barbaric,  where  in  the  scale  of  civilisation  does  a 
nation  come  that  wears  none  at  all  ?  Surely  art  can 
produce  worthier  things  than  jewellery,  and  are  not 
morals  better  without  it  ? 

Our  inn  was  full  of  guests,  quite  full,  and  all  the 
rooms  have  paper  panels.  There  are  no  keys,  no 
locks,  no  bolts,  the  whole  inn,  were  it  so  minded, 
could  go  in  and  out  of  every  room  ;  and  yet  we  all 
sleep  in  peace  and  quite  secure.  It  is  true  that  an 
innkeeper  here  must  bear  an  unblemished  character 
or  his  house  is  shut,  and  that  the  guests  often 


IN  MATSUE  233 

come  with  a  letter  from  their  last  innkeeper,  but  not 
always,  and  yet  we  all  sleep  with  half  an  inch  of 
rice-paper  between  us,  and  walls  of  sliding  panels. 
Could  a  hotelful  of  civilised  Europeans  be  so  trusted  ? 
If  not  to  steal,  then  not  to  pry  as  well  ?  But  here 
nobody  looks.  Although  we  have  become  great  per- 
sonages indeed,  nobody  looks.  And  in  the  big  towns 
as  in  the  country  villages,  in  railway  hotels  as  in  this 
remote  corner  of  the  Land  of  the  Gods,  we  have  slept 
in  absolute  security  in  rooms  that  are  always  open. 
Only  once  in  all  our  wanderings  did  someone  push  the 
shoji.  It  was  an  Ijin  San  who  thought  it  was  "  a  lark." 

And  so  we  lived  in  the  Land  of  the  Gods  and  learnt 
wisdom,  wisdom  from  the  lake,  and  the  hills,  and  the 
rice-fields,  from  the  night  and  the  daylight,  and  the 
inner  beauty  of  the  land  lay  before  our  eyes,  still  dim, 
for  western  eyes  are  blind  to  eastern  meaning  through 
want  of  power  to  focus,  but  in  part  we  saw,  and  the 
joy  of  that  seeing  has  never  passed  away.  The  town, 
the  inn,  the  comely  landlady,  and  the  wee,  wide-eyed 
children  all  taught  us  wisdom  and  the  meaning  and 
the  beauty  of  the  land.  Slowly  we  saw,  dimly  too,  for 
western  eyes  are  very  blind  to  eastern  meaning,  and 
race,  religion,  training  and  the  whole  up-make  of  our 
ideas  and  beliefs  stand  so  often  in  the  way.  Still  in 
part  we  saw,  and  the  lessons  of  that  seeing  have  never 
passed  away.  We  had  come  in  all  humility,  so  the 
Gods  were  kind.  They  opened  our  eyes  that  we  might 
see. 

When  we  announced  that  we  were  going  the  house- 
hold was  upset.  And  on  the  last  morning  of  our  stay 
they  all,  landlord,  landlady,  plain  daughter,  goggle- 


234  ™E  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

eyed  waiting-girls,  came  in  a  procession  bearing  gifts. 
We  had  fans  to  keep  us  cool  upon  the  journey,  white 
towels  with  pictures  of  the  inn  in  blue,  and  above 
all,  gifts  of  the  beautiful  Matsu6  china  which  we 
had  so  much  admired.  Everything  was  tied  up  in 
the  neatest  parcels  wrapped  in  pieces  of  brocade,  and 
presented  on  lacquered  trays.  On  the  top  of  the 
Matsud  china  lay  a  tiny  white  paper  cone  lined  with 
red  in  which  was  stuck  a  splinter  of  bamboo  cane,  the 
modern  symbol  of  the  old-time  fish  which  was  always 
presented  with  each  gift.  And  the  meaning  of  the 
whole  is  peace,  plenty,  and  prosperity.  We  had 
nothing  so  beautiful  to  give  in  exchange,  only  a  cake 
of  foreign  soap  and  a  visiting-card.  The  cake  of  soap 
was  considered  by  the  rest  of  the  household,  including 
the  old  grandmother,  who  had  come  in,  as  a  palpable 
hit,  and  the  visiting-cards  were  much  prized. 

Then  with  every  one  carrying  our  luggage  we  were 
escorted  to  the  gravel  recess  of  the  entrance,  where 
our  kurumaya  stood  waiting,  and  all  the  household 
went  down  on  its  knees  on  the  polished  wooden  plat- 
form and  said  sweet  sayonara. 

And  there  in  the  walled-in  recess  with  the  wooden 
gheta  lying  on  the  big  grey  block  of  stone  the  kneeling 
figures  stayed.  Clad  in  their  dark  blue  kimono  with  the 
bright-coloured  obi  at  the  waist,  they  knelt  on  the 
polished  wood,  their  heads  on  their  hands,  their  hands 
on  the  floor ;  and  as  they  knelt  the  rolls  and  whorls  of 
their  coiffures  seemed  to  grow  like  flowers  from  bending 
stalks  of  blue. 

"Sayonara,"  they  said,  and  all  the  blue  stalks  swayed. 

'\Sayonara  "  we  called  back.  "  Farewell."  Oh, 
dear  Land  of  the  Gods  that  has  taught  us  wisdom,  not 
you,  but  we  have  need  to  fare  well. 


VI 
THE  TWO  SPIRITS 

OUT  of  the  town  and  above  it,  the  daimyo  of  Matsue 
once  built  him  a  castle,  and  he  filled  it  with  the  stern 
warriors  whose  soul  was  their  sword.  Daimyo  after 
daimyo  lived  and  died,  and  still  a  daimyo  ruled  over 
Izumo  ;  and  warrior  after  warrior  fought  and  was  slain, 
and  still  the  samurai  learned  the  laws  of  the  bushi, 
the  way  of  the  warrior,  and  the  strong  fortress  of 
Matsue,  with  its  moat  and  its  walls,  was  guarded  and 
kept  by  men  whose  lives  were  one  long  servitude  to 
honour  and  duty.  The  grim  ideals  of  a  code  which 
feared  no  death  and  no  torture,  which  exacted  the 
sternest  courage  and  self-control,  were  taught  and 
practised  in  the  castle  of  Matsue,  until  the  Son  of 
Heaven  ruled  in  Tokyo  and  daimyo  and  samurai  were 
feudal  lord  and  loyal  vassal  no  longer. 

The  grim  walls  are  standing  now,  the  castle  with  its 
moat  still  rises  above  Matsue  to  possess  it,  but  the 
spirit  of  its  fierce  dominance  is  gone  ;  instead,  that 
twin-soul  of  the  Japanese  race  has  entered  into  the 
stronghold,  the  Love  of  Beauty  has  cast  out  the  Love 
of  Battle,  the  sword  is  changed  to  flowers,  for  in  the 
moat  of  the  castle  the  lotus  is  blooming. 

Stern  and  very  strong  the  grey  walls  rise  high  into 
the  air,  they  have  not  lost  their  grimness  though  their 


236  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

feet  are  bathed  in  flowers.  It  is  true  the  gateway  is 
broken,  and  where  the  drawbridge  once  fell  there  is 
now  a  broad  path  of  stamped  earth,  but  the  long  lines 
of  solid  wall  are  firm  still  and  uninjured.  They  still 
rise  frowning  from  out  the  deep  waters  of  the  moat ; 
but  to-day  the  moat  itself  has  disappeared,  in  its  place 
the  broad  thick  leaves  of  the  lotus  stretch  like  a  silvery 
green  river  around  the  walls.  So  broad,  so  strong,  so 
helpless,  the  great  leaves  hang  like  unsteady  giants  on 
their  stalks,  and  the  pin-points  of  water  gather  and 
gather  on  the  hairy  surface,  till  the  leaf  curls  to  a  cup 
and  a  big  waterdrop,  molten  as  quicksilver,  runs 
gleaming  over  the  green. 

The  lotus  leaves  lie  all  lazy  at  angles  of  rest,  but 
the  flowers  seem  to  rise  on  their  stalks  as  birds  taking 
wing.  All  pure  white  or  palest  pink,  each  single 
flower  is  a  giant's  handful  of  blossom,  and  yet  the 
petals  are  delicate,  almost  transparent ;  thin,  too,  in 
their  texture,  but  of  a  satiny  softness,  they  curl  with  the 
grace  of  a  rose  above  the  pure  gold  of  their  hearts. 

The  lotus  leaves  dream  inert,  each  on  its  stalk  hangs 
drooping,  often  awry :  they  encircle  the  walls  like  a 
green  river  of  water  that  stagnantly  sleeps  ;  but  the 
flowers  are  awake  and  they  rise  from  their  leaves  as 
the  Spirit  of  Beauty  once  rose  from  the  waters.  All 
pure  white  on  this  side  of  the  gateway,  all  pale  pink 
on  that,  the  great  cups  of  blossom  stand  stately.  Very 
fragile  in  their  texture,  and  yet  so  ample  in  their  form 
the  lotus  flower  seems  the  meeting-point  of  luxuriance 
and  grace ;  the  point  where  more  of  either  were  really 
less  of  both. 

With  its  roots  deep  down  in  the  mud,  with  its 
leaves  often  frankly  ridiculous  in  the  large  un- 
couthness  of  their  attitudes,  with  its  beauty  in  no  way 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS  237 

ethereal,  the  lotus  is  yet  the  symbol  of  Death,  not 
of  Nirvana,  but  of  Death,  of  the  completing  of  one 
brief  period  in  this  long  cycle  which  we  call  Life.  So 
in  Matsu£  they  planted  the  moat  of  the  castle  with 
the  flower  of  the  lotus  for  the  life  of  Old  Japan,  of 
castle  and  daimyo  and  samurai,  is  ended.  It  is  Death 
but  a  new  Beginning. 

Beyond  the  gateway,  a  grass-grown  flight  of  granite 
steps  leads  to  the  castle,  and  we  climb. 

All  the  castles  in  all  Japan  are  the  same,  bigger  or 
smaller,  with  details  of  decoration  or  style  that  differen- 
tiate them,  they  are  yet  in  the  broad  outlines  of  their 
architecture  one  and  the  same.  A  Japanese  house 
is  Japanese,  but  the  castle  comes  from  China,  at  least 
originally,  and  its  pagoda  character  is  very  evident.  The 
castle  at  Matsue  had  its  ground  floor  of  stone,  rough- 
hewn  blocks  of  granite  which  fitted  closely  to  each  other 
without  mortar.  The  stone  storey,  as  all  the  succeeding 
ones  of  wood  above  it,  tapered  gradually  inwards  so 
that  the  top-most  wooden  storey  would  have  fitted  into 
the  one  below  it,  and  that  into  the  next,  and  all  into 
the  square  stone  box  of  the  ground  floor,  as  neatly  as 
the  nest  of  baskets  sold  in  the  streets  of  the  town 
below. 

Inside,  the  rough-hewn  stone  walls  were  left  as  bare 
as  the  outside,  and  a  long  steep  ladder  of  a  staircase, 
which  began  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  one  floor  to  end 
with  equal  abruptness  in  the  middle  of  the  floorabove,  led 
from  storey  to  storey.  The  stone  storey  was  divided  into 
two,  the  rest  were  of  wood,  and  all  now  were  absolutely 
bare  and  unadorned  ;  the  mere  outer  shell  of  a  building 
which  had  once  lived  and  sheltered  lives.  Only  in  the  top 
floor,  where  on  all  four  sides  sliding  panels  of  glass  had 


238  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GODS 

replaced  the  rice-paper  skoji,  was  there  any  sign  of  life. 
This  room  had  been  turned  into  a  sort  of  Military 
Museum  with  relics  of  the  China  war,  swords  and  guns, 
and  a  whole  long  series  of  wonderful  coloured  prints, 
with  the  Chinese  always  fleeing,  their  long,  long  pigtails 
floating  in  the  breeze,  the  Japanese  always  pursuing 
with  impossible  profiles  and  highly  polished  boots  ;  and 
gravely  studying  the  pictures  was  a  group  of  school- 
boys. Their  comments  were  mostly  bloodthirsty  ;  the 
best  way  of  sticking  the  pink  Chinaman  on  the  left,  or 
of  beheading  the  yellow  one  on  the  right ;  but  they 
did  not  seem  moved  with  any  animosity  or  any  sense 
of  triumph,.they  merely  discussed  the  sword-cuts  scientifi- 
cally, seriously,  as  though  it  were  a  grave  business  of 
life  and  they  wished  to  arrive  at  a  right  conclusion. 

Matsue's  castle  is  beyond  and  above  the  town,  and 
the  daimyo  who  built  it  and  the  warriors  who  guarded 
it  looked  down  on  this  side  over  the  grey  roofs  of  the 
houses  to  the  wide  blue  waters  of  the  still  lagoon,  on 
that  side  over  the  grey  roofs  of  the  houses  and  the 
sweep  of  the  quiet  rice-fields  where  the  river,  like  a 
broad  path  of  steel  wanders  through  the  bright  green 
fields  ;  and  further  round  they  looked  to  where  the  tall 
trees  climb  the  steep  hillsides,  and  further  still  to  the 
great  blue  lines  of  the  hills  themselves  shutting  in  the 
sky.  And  the  old  warriors  in  their  watch-tower  looked 
out  over  this  wide  fair  world  which  lay  so  still  around 
them.  They  guarded  the  castle  and  they  kept  it,  and 
the  light  that  was  set  in  that  tower  was  the  light  of 
courage  and  of  duty.  Over  the  world  beneath  their 
feet  it  shone  out  clear  and  bright,  but  the  world  was 
wider  than  their  horizon.  After  many  years  they 
learned  that  lesson,  and  then  they  came  down  from 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS  239 

their  watch-tower,  and  the  light  which  once  burned 
there  in  the  castle  is  gone  to-day  through  all  the  land. 
Then  the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  the  soul  of  that  world 
which  lay  so  still  beneath  the  tower,  went  up  to  the 
castle,  where  with  courage  and  duty  the  love  of  battle 
and  of  death  had  ruled  so  long,  to  possess  it.  And 
in  the  waters  of  the  moat  the  lotus  is  blooming. 

With  its  roots  in  the  mud,  say  the  Japanese  Bud- 
dhists, the  lotus  flower  is  an  emblem  of  man,  of  a  good 
man  in  this  wicked  world.  From  among  the  sins  and 
the  passions  of  life  Buddha  himself  rose  perfect,  pure 
as  the  lotus,  and  perfect.  So  for  a  sign  and  a  comfort 
to  all  men,  Lord  Buddha  himself  sits  throned  on  the 
lotus,  showing  how  Goodness  Eternal  came,  not  from 
good,  but  from  the  midst  of  things  evil. 

In  the  moat  of  the  castle  the  people  of  Matsue"  have 
planted  whole  fields  of  the  lotus,  that  the  flower  which 
is  perfect  might  grow  from  the  sins  of  the  past,  grow 
with  each  cycle  of  Life  ever  more  perfect. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 


"Shakspeare  would  have  us  know  that  there  is  no  devotion 
to  truth,  to  justice,  to  charity,  more  intense  and  real  than  that 
of  the  man  who  is  faithful  to  them  out  of  the  sheer  spirit  of 
loyalty,  unstimulated  and  unsupported  by  any  faith  which  can 
be  called  theological." 

DOWDEN,  "  Shakspeare,  his  Mind  and  Art." 


TOKYO 

TOKYO  is  a  city  of  one  million  five  hundred  thousand 
souls,  and  in  its  heart  of  hearts  stands  the  Palace  of  the 
Son  of  Heaven. 

The  city  through  its  girdle  of  brown  streets  works 
hard,  its  wharfs  and  factories,  its  shops  and  warehouses 
are  dense  with  human  life  and  resonant  with  human 
labour.  The  low  brown  streets  so  thick  with  flimsy 
paper  houses  stretch  for  ten  miles  along  the  plain.  In 
them  the  children  play,  the  kuruma  pass  quickly,  the 
heavy  laden  hand-carts  of  the  coolies  push  and  jostle, 
but  the  heart  of  this  great  capital  lies  still. 

From  circumference  to  centre  as  you  come,  through 
street  on  street  of  houses,  wharves  and  shops,  the  magic 
of  the  city  grows.  First  the  streets  space  out  and  out, 
then  the  houses  dwindle  as  the  trees  and  gardens  grow, 
greener,  wilder,  stiller,  till  the  heart  of  Tokyo's  city  is 
a  moated  park  of  peace. 

Up  nine  steep  hills  the  city  spreads,  and  sea  and 
river,  and  the  wide  green  rice-fields  lap  it  round,  while 
far  away  across  the  land,  above  the  level  blue  of  sky 
great  Fuji  rises  peerless  in  the  midmost  heaven. 

Engirdled  by  the  thronged  and  busy  streets  the  nine 
tall  hills  peaceful  with  well-kept  houses  and  secluded 
gardens,  make  a  crescent  round  the  moated  park.  For 


244  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

in  this  strange  city  whose  centre  is  a  palace  and  a 
peaceful  walled-in  pleasaunce  the  "  suburbs  "  lie  within 
and  not  without  the  town. 

And  through  the  town  and  over  street  and  roadway, 
in  the  gardens  and  the  courtyards  the  gaunt  beaked 
crows  flap  coal-black  wings  as  they  sail  past,  and  their 
cynical  "  Haw,  haw  "  is  sarcastic  with  an  utter  disbelief. 
With  stately  swoop,  black  wings  outspread,  they  drift 
past  the  ear  of  the  newcomer  confident  with  a  three 
weeks'  visit  that  he  understands  the  East,  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  cocksureness  they  drop  their  cold,  sarcastic 
"Haw." 

Brown  and  so  crowded  are  the  streets,  bewildering 
with  their  jostle  of  blue-clad  men  and  women,  their 
open  stalls,  their  unmade  roads  of  earth  stretching  flat 
between  the  houses  on  each  side,  where  man-drawn 
carts,  and  kuruma,  passengers,  and  children  get  in 
each  other's  way.  The  white  uniformed  policeman, 
sword  on  thigh,  stands,  a  bronze  statue,  at  each  busy 
corner,  and  to  him  even  the  criminal  is  polite.  And 
down  the  streets  and  through  and  through  the  town, 
cut  straight  or  winding,  the  brown  canals,  valleys  of 
black  mud,  or  slow  streams  of  dark  water,  run  to  the 
river  and  the  sea.  And  thousands  upon  thousands, 
too,  seem  the  bridges,  some  flat  and  narrow  as 
gangways,  most  arched  in  a  crescent  curve,  and  the 
brown  canals  run  from  the  sea  and  from  the  river  far 
within  the  town. 

On  one  of  them,  at  high  tide,  a  steamer  like  the  ark 
of  Noah  plies.  It  seems  to  go  indifferently  stern  or 
bow  foremost,  and  is  no  larger  than  a  big-sized  rowing 
boat.  The  one  landing-stage  to  which  I  traced  it  was 
like  a  pasteboard  on  two  rolling-pins,  and  stood  as  the 
threshold  to  the  back  door  of  a  house.  A  European 


TOKYO  245 

picture  hung  above  the  entrance,  bright  with  greens 
and  blues  and  reds  and  yellows,  where  this  resplen- 
dent steamer  floating  amid  green  waves,  showed  at 
alternate  windows  a  head,  male,  Japanese,  dressed 
"  foreign";  a  head,  female,  Japanese,  dressed  Japanese. 
A  policeman  and  a  soldier  both  in  uniform  balanced 
on  the  deck  at  either  end.  The  ark's  ports  of  call,  as 
its  starting-place  and  destination,  remained  a  mystery. 
At  low  tide  the  canal  was  an  inch  of  water  between 
two  banks  of  mud,  and  only  at  high  tide  could  this  toy 
ark  float  at  all. 

One  long,  straight  street,  broken  into  sections  at  the 
bridges,  and  then  reset  at  different  angles,  runs  from 
end  to  end  of  Tokyo,  runs  from  Shimbashi  to  Ueno, 
from  the  "  Mercantile  Marine  Store,"  which  sells  dried 
fishes,  to  the  Parcels  Office  of  that  delicious  "  Internal 
Railway,"  otherwise  unknown  to  fame.  This  is  the 
main  street  of  the  town,  here  is  the  Ginza,  with  its  red 
brick  sidewalks,  its  shop-boys  who  speak  English,  even 
its  plate  glass  windows.  Here,  too,  is  the  goldsmith 
who  advertises  : 

"RINGS,  BRONCHITIS,  AND  OTHER 
JEWELRY.  BEST  KINDS  ONLY  KEPT  IN 
STOCK"; 

And  the  residence  of  that  mysterious  baker  who 
keeps : 

-BEARDS,  VINE  CAKES  AND  SLOR  FOR 
SALE." 

And  down  it  from  end  to  end  runs  Tokyo's  main 
tramway.  With  the  river  on  the  east,  the  moated  park 
upon  the  west,  north  and  south  the  broad  street  runs, 
and  the  park  of  Shiba  lies  at  one  end  and  the  park  of 
Ueno  at  the  other.  Shiba,  where  the  tombstones  of 


246          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

the  dead  shogun  lie  in  their  sumptuous  lacquered 
temples  ;  Ueno,  where  the  lacquered  temples  stand 
bullet-pierced,  for  the  soldiers  of  the  shogun  and  the 
soldiers  of  the  emperor  fought  their  last  fight  here 
before  the  great  Tenshisama  came  back  to  his 
own  again.  Once  the  closed  gardens  of  Buddhistic 
monasteries,  both  parks  now  are  open  to  the  town, 
bicycles  ride  through  them,  nursemaids,  their  babies 
on  their  backs,  loiter  in  them,  little  girls  play  classic 
games  of  bones,  boys  catch  grasshoppers,  while  beneath 
the  trees  the  low  red  blanketed  tables  of  the  chaya  offer 
\d.  teas. 

The  Park  of  Shiba  is  green  and  quiet,  smaller  than 
Ueno,  for  its  temples  hold  so  large  a  space.  It  is  a 
forest  growing  in  the  heart  of  a  town.  Ueno  is 
lighter,  brighter,  fuller  of  flowers  and  festivals,  with 
long  avenues  of  cherry-trees,  and  a  lake  where  the 
lotus  flowers  grow  thickly. 

And  over  the  lake  and  the  temples,  over  the  cherry- 
trees  and  the  tea-stalls,  over  the  city  below  and  the 
playing  children  within,  the  big  bronze  bell  of  Ueno 
sends  forth  its  great  booming  note — that  note  which 
is  outside  our  music,  deeper,  more  liquid,  which  comes 
with  its  low,  booming  sway,  just  when  daylight 
turns  to  darkness.  Cast  of  bronze  and  silver,  rung  by 
a  wooden  beam  that  strikes  a  boss  outside,  the  note 
of  the  great  bell  comes  swaying  as  though  the  air 
were  water.  And  slowly  over  the  city  the  bell  booms, 
trembling,  and  he  who  hears  it  sits  still  and  thinks ; 
sits  lost  and  dreams  of  the  song  of  the  seven  spheres. 

When  Ueno's  avenues  of  cherry-trees  are  pink  with 
flowers,  when  the  stalls  beneath  the  trees  are  full  of 
flower  hairpins,  then  Tokyo  through  its  gardens  and 


TOKYO  247 

its  roadways  blushes  too,  for  the  whole  city  is  planted 
thick  with  cherry-trees.  Not  only  on  the  river  bank, 
where  the  long  two -mile  avenue  of  Mukojima  is  a 
perpetual  fete,  but  everywhere,  in  private  gardens 
and  in  public  streets,  the  delicate,  pale  pink  blossoms 
on  their  brown  leafless  branches  catch  the  sunshine 
and  the  showers,  and  fall  as  little  rosy  clouds  from 
heaven  on  to  the  ground  beneath.  For  Tokyo  is  a 
city  holding  the  country  in  its  lap.  Not  an  artificial 
bedded-out  country,  stiff  as  a  Versailles  park,  but  the 
real  wayward  country,  though  tended  with  a  loving, 
understanding  care. 

And  Tokyo  is  a  city  brimful  of  flowers.  Between 
the  cherry-trees  of  April  and  the  chrysanthemums  of 
November  most  of  the  flowers  can  be  seen  within 
the  city  in  temple  courts  or  nursery  gardens  or  public 
parks.  The  lake  of  the  lotus  at  Ueno  is  famous  through 
Japan,  and  in  the  temple  of  Kameido  grow  the  age-old 
wistarias. 

Trained  on  horizontal  trellis  work,  their  long 
pale  tassels  hang  down  towards  the  water,  stirring 
with  each  breeze.  The  trailing  clusters  of  the  flowers 
grow  four  feet  long  sometimes,  and  droop  towards 
the  surface  of  the  lake  in  thick  swaying  pendants  of 
pure  colour.  Behind  these  living  curtains,  in  a  twilight 
of  pale  mauve  or  soft  white  light,  on  the  edge  of  the  pond 
whose  shape  spells  "heart,"  sometimes  afloat  on  the 
pond  itself,  the  tables  of  the  chaya  stand,  and  those  who 
make  holiday  because  the  flowers  are  blooming,  all 
Tokyo,  sit  and  look,  drinking  wee  bowls  of  pale  green 
tea,  or  writing  poems  to  the  flowers. 

On  the  waters  of  this  lake  of  the  letter  "  heart " 
float  the  pale  mauve  petals  and  the  petals  of  pure 
white,  which  fall  and  drift  and  sink,  and  fall  and  drift 


248  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

and  sink,  until  the  waters  are  hidden  with  flower 
flakes  and  the  wistaria  is  over  and  gone. 

Kameido  lies  on  the  far  bank  of  the  Sumidagawa, 
in  a  network  of  poor  streets,  for  the  left  bank  of  the 
river,  like  the  big  island  at  its  mouth,  is  denser 
with  yards  and  factories  than  is  the  right.  The  streets 
are  narrower,  fuller  of  children  and  the  noise  of 
hammers  and  of  wheels.  Yet  in  this  poor  wage- 
working  quarter  the  festivals  of  the  plum-blossoms, 
the  wistaria,  and  the  peony  are  held. 

In  all  Japan  there  is  no  other  flower /&te  which  in  the 
least  resembles  a  horticultural  show  except  that  of 
Botan,  the  tree-peony.  For  when  the  peony  blooms,  the 
little  trees,  large  as  dwarf  rose-bushes,  are  placed  on 
tiers  inside  a  matted  tent.  There  the  resemblance 
ends.  These  plants  are  set  each  in  a  framework  of 
space,  and  the  colours  are  grouped  and  blended  with 
the  thought  and  the  instinct  of  an  artist. 

The  flowers  of  the  peony  are  as  large  as  the  largest 
chrysanthemum,  larger  than  ours,  but  their  petals  are 
rich,  made  of  satin  where  ours  are  of  cotton,  delicate, 
fragile,  and  sheeny.  The  colouring  is  soft  and 
subdued,  and  the  faint  sweet  scent  which  comes  from 
them  is  like  the  dream  of  a  rose.  The  colours  are 
simple,  white  warming  to  cream,  paling  to  snow,  and 
all  the  tints  of  pale  reds,  deep  reds,  and  crimsons. 

The  matting  which  covers  them  is  of  pale  yellow, 
but  somehow  the  light,  as  it  comes  through  it,  touched 
perhaps  by  the  flowers,  is  the  light  of  a  dream — as 
sunlight  without  heat,  as  moonlight  warmed  and  living, 
a  light  that  shimmers,  holding  colour  fast  within,  yet 
fast  asleep.  To-day  the  light  in  that  peony  tent  at 
Kameido  remains  to  me  as  definite  as  the  flowers,  as 
distinct  as  the  scent,  as  real  and,  in  truth,  more 


TOKYO  249 

beautiful.     It  was  as  though  one  saw  the  radiance  of  an 
unknown,  unmade  jewel,  light  but  not  yet  substance. 

All  this  left  bank  of  the  river  from  Fukagawa  to 
Eko-in  is  full  of  workmen  and  workshops,  of  small 
trades  and  smaller  traders,  and  here  in  the  month  of 
May  in  the  grounds  of  the  temple  raised  to  the 
memory  of  the  hundred  thousand  citizens  killed  in  the 
great  fire  of  1657,  the  yearly  wrestling  contests  are 
held.  The  Smo,  tall,  broad,  powerful  men,  many  six 
feet  high  or  more,  who  dress  in  large  checked  fctmonoand 
wear  their  hair  in  the  old-fashioned  top-knot,  are  adored 
by  the  populace  who  come  in  thousands  to  see  them. 

The  little  round  platform  of  stamped  earth  sprinkled 
with  sand,  set  in  the  midst  of  a  huge  amphitheatre  of 
faces,  shows  small  as  a  raft  on  the  sea,  and  slight 
despite  its  purple  trapping.  The  crowd,  a  Tokyo 
crowd  in  kimono  and  foreign  head-gear,  cap,  bowler, 
and  felt  hat,  sit  from  morning  until  night,  day  in  day 
out,  for  the  three  long  weeks  of  the  wrestling  matches. 

The  wrestlers  stand,  knees  bent,  body  horizontal,  their 
outstretched  hands  almost  touching  the  ground,  and 
grip.  And  the  bout  is  long  because  the  grip  must  be 
accepted  by  both  of  them,  and  because  between  each 
false  grip  the  two  retire  slowly  to  their  respective 
sides  and  wash  out  their  mouths  with  tea.  This 
may  be  repeated  a  dozen,  twenty  times,  but  when 
the  real  grip  comes,  then  the  action  can  be  swift 
as  lightning ;  the  opponent  forced  beyond  the  straw 
rope  which  lies  upon  the  sanded  earth  of  the  ring, 
before  one  realises  that  the  wrestle  has  begun,  or 
pushed  down  over  it  with  the  slow  resistless  force 
of  flowing  water,  or  the  two  may  sway  about  inter- 
minably before  one  is  beaten. 


250  THE  HEAF.T  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

Bulk  is  not  the  one  ideal  of  the  wrestler,  the 
young  and  strong  rely  on  their  activity ;  it  is  only 
when  a  man  is  getting  older  that  he  weights  himself 
with  fat,  that  his  bulk  and  heaviness  may  prove  too 
great  for  his  opponent  easily  to  push  over.  The  wrestlers 
all  wear  waistbands  and  stiff  fringes  of  blue  silk,  and 
the  rippling  of  the  muscles  beneath  their  golden  brown 
skin  is  such  a  joy  as  the  Greek  nation  knew  at  the  time 
of  the  Olympiads. 

A  man  with  a  fan,  an  average-sized  Japanese  who 
hardly  comes  above  the  elbows  of  some  of  the  wrestlers 
acts  as  starter,  as  umpire,  and  as  referee,  and  the  sharp 
s-s-sh  of  his  shutting  fan  can  be  heard  distinctly  in  the 
silence  of  the  amphitheatre.  The  judges,  four  old  tried 
wrestlers,  sit  under  purple  hangings  and  decide  dis- 
puted points,  while  half  the  front  tier  is  reserved  for 
the  Smo  themselves. 

But  to  the  non- Japanese  it  is  not  the  wrestlers  but 
the  spectators  who  are  the  centre  of  interest.  Here 
gathered  together  within  the  amphitheatre,  concen- 
trated on  one  thought,  absorbed,  therefore  natural,  sit 
samples  of  all  Tokyo.  For  the  Smo,  like  our  prize 
fight  of  last  century,  is  beloved  by  the  populace  and 
patronised  by  the  aristocracy.  Every  one  takes  some 
sort  of  interest  in  it,  and  results  are  as  widely 
known  as  the  Derby  or  a  test  match.  The  crowd, 
a  crowd  of  men  and  boys, — for  the  fathers  bring 
their  little  sons  with  them, — knows,  as  well  as  the 
umpire  himself,  the  forty-eight  falls,  the  twelve  lifts, 
the  twelve  throws,  the  twelve  twists,  the  twelve  throws 
over  the  back,  alone  allowed  the  Japanese  wrestler. 
The  excitement  at  disputed  points  is  intense,  the  whole 
amphitheatre  arguing  with  its  neighbour.  The  enthu- 
siasm at  a  brilliant,  a  quick,  or  a  well-contested 


TOKYO  251 

throw  is  intoxicating.  Spectators  will  rise  in  their 
seats  and  throw  down  presents,  tobacco-pouches, 
purses,  hats,  or  other  property,  which  the  owner 
redeems  next  morning  in  money. 

The  Smo  are  the  idols  of  the  street  boys,  and  tall, 
huge,  unintelligent,  in  gaudy  kimono  and  well-oiled 
top-knots,  they  stride  through  the  Tokyo  streets 
haughty,  and  sometimes  overbearing. 

We  think  of  the  Japanese  as  unalterably  small,  yet 
here  is  a  class,  bone  of  their  bone,  flesh  of  their  flesh, 
who  are  huge,  strong,  large-framed  men,  taller  than  the 
tall  races  of  the  north.  They  are  another  and  a  living 
contradiction  of  the  imaginary  minisculism  of  the  nation. 
If  the  Japanese  desire  to  produce  big  things,  in  war,  in 
statues,  or  in  men,  they  take  thought,  they  take  care ; 
much  thought,  infinite  care,  and  somehow  it  is  done. 

So  Tokyo  wrestles,  works  and  plays,  and  this  left 
bank  of  the  river  toils  and  lives  hard.  Across  the 
water  Tsukiji,  secluded  in  its  "  foreign "  residences, 
dwells  genteel,  and  gossips.  The  Ginza  shops.  The 
suburbs  far  within  the  circle  of  the  streets  grow  hedged- 
in  gardens  and  long  avenues  of  trees,  where  the  houses 
lie  unseen.  The  schools,  the  training  colleges,  and  the 
university,  a  cityful  of  students  study,  and  boys  in 
cotton  hakama  and  dark-peaked  soldiers'  caps  walk 
through  the  streets — boys  who  are  passing  from  the 
indulged  childhood  of  Japan  to  the  iron  self-control  of 
manhood. 

The*re  is  apparent  in  their  ways  and  manners  a  touch 
of  self-assertiveness,  a  touch  of  almost  self-conceit, 
which  at  no  other  time  in  their  own  lives,  and  at  no 
time  at  all  in  any  other  member  of  the  community,  will 
ever  be  observable.  It  is  but  a  touch,  and  would  pass 


252          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

unseen  in  any  other  land,  in  any  other  setting  ;  here  it 
stands  out  palpable.  A  little  hard  these  boys  look  and 
very  earnest.  They  will  strike  work  if  they  think  a 
teacher  is  not  competent  to  teach,  so  bent  are  they  on 
learning.  They  seem  to  have  accepted  school  as  the 
modern  training  of  the  samurai,  and  to  study  in  that 
spirit. 

The  scholarship  boys  at  Government  Colleges  work 
harder  still  and  on  the  narrowest  of  means.  They  can 
afford  so  little  for  their  board  that  one  whole  college 
gave  up  playing  base-ball  in  its  recreation  hour  because 
"  it  made  them  too  hungry." 

And  at  the  University,  where  the  students  matricu- 
late at  twenty  and  stay  till  twenty-four  and  five,  for 
beside  their  own  learning,  beside  the  ten  thousand 
Chinese  symbols  and  all  the  philosophy  of  the  East, 
they  must  to-day  add  the  learning  of  the  West,  the 
languages  of  Europe,  the  laws,  the  sciences,  and  the 
arts  of  another  civilisation  and  of  an  alien  race,  at 
the  University  the  students  live  lives  of  hardest  brain- 
work  and  rigidest  economy.  Many  spend  their  even- 
ings in  earning  the  money  that  buys  their  day.  Some 
deliver  newspapers  and  sleep  in  the  porches  of 
"  foreign  "  houses.  Many  die  of  consumption,  brought 
on  by  over- work  and  under-feeding.  Across  the  river 
the  hammers  ring,  the  wheels  whir  round,  the  hum 
of  a  people's  toil  sounds  in  all  ears.  Here  within  the 
girdle  of  the  streets,  between  the  factories  and  the 
palace  is  a  work  doing,  silent,  less  perceptible  but 
harder,  higher  and  undertaken  for  that  end. 

Between  the  hard  work  of  hand  and  brain  Ginza 
and  Nihon-bashi  shop,  and  at  night  the  wire-drawn 
twang  of  the  samisen  comes  from  the  lighted  restaurants. 


TOKYO  253 

Restaurants  where  each  diner  or  each  party  occupies 
a  separate  room,  and  geisha  girls  are  sent  for  to  enter- 
tain the  guests,  with  puns  and  games,  with  polite  con- 
versations and  endless  repartee.  They  sit  on  the  kneel- 
ing cushions  throughout  the  meal  pouring  sake — and 
amuse.  Then  they  dance.  Posturing  and  swaying  to 
an  accompaniment  of  samisen  and  song  they  glide  over 
the  matting  always  graceful,  always  reserved.  The 
quality  of  their  dancing  rings  passionless,  dainty,  grace- 
ful, not  cold  but  controlled.  An  air  of  serenity  sur- 
rounds them.  They  are  not  trained  to  the  duties  of 
womanhood,  but  to  its  heaviest  burden — pleasing. 
The  licensed  playthings  of  the  nation,  toys  to  amuse, 
they  reach  up  to  their  limited,  low-scaled  destiny, 
through  the  perpetual  sacrifice  of  self ;  and  the  national 
self-control  encases  them,  so  much  their  very  own  that 
few  perceive  it.  With  very  different  fates  and  from 
very  different  motives  there  is  about  them,  as  they 
dance,  something  of  the  charm  and  of  the  aloofness  of 
Andersen's  mermaiden  ;  and  if  their  steps  too  are  as 
steps  upon  a  sword,  they,  too,  will  smile  untroubled. 

So  the  city  strives  and  pleasures,  so  the  city  learns 
and  toils.  Full  and  full  of  life  the  streets,  quiet  and 
very  still  the  heart.  The  nine  tall  hills  from  ihiba  to 
Ueno  make  a  crescent  round  the  moat,  the  brown 
streets  lie  without,  the  Mikado  dwells  within.  Born 
as  a  camp  Yedo  made  its  ruler's  seat  its  centre,  its 
nobles'  yashiki  an  enclosing  wall  ;  and  then  beyond, 
out  of  sight  and  sound,  the  necessary,  unimportant 
commonfolk  had  leave  to  work  and  sell.  Tokyo  to- 
day is  still  as  Yedo  was.  Yashiki  are  pulled  down, 
their  ground  is  sold,  but  parliaments  and  embassies, 
nobles'  houses  and  their  gardens,  still  make  a  circle 


254          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

round  the  palace,  a  space  of  suburb  and  of  peace 
between  the  city  and  its  centre. 

Over  the  streets  and  the  roadways,  through  parks 
and  gardens,  the  black-winged  crows  sail  past  cynical, 
unbelieving.  The  web  of  brown  canals  beneath  their 
high-arched  bridges,  the  broad  uncertain  river  some- 
times slowly,  sometimes  fiercely,  all  flow  towards  the 
sea.  The  land-locked  ocean,  and  the  pale  green  rice- 
fields  ripple  round  the  streets.  From  sixty  miles 
across  the  plain  great  Fuji  looks  towards  the  capital. 

And  here  in  Tokyo's  heart,  in  Dai  Nippon's  heart  of 
hearts,  not  the  usurping  shogun  or  general  in  his  camp, 
but  Tenshisama,  Son  of  Heaven,  bestower  of  a 
western  constitution,  augustly  dwells. 


II 

EAST  AND  WEST 

EAST 

THE  large  red  building  covered  all  over  with  Chinese 
characters — a  white  sign  on  each  cardboard  square  of 
red — overlooks  the  canal.  It  seems  too  gaudy  and 
unsubstantial  a  building  for  sober  work,  and  yet  all 
day  long  multitudes  of  dark-blue  coolies,  like  Florentine 
noblemen  run  to  seed,  go  in  and  out.  Fantastic  key 
patterns  in  white  are  traced  upon  the  skirts  of  their 
blue  tunics,  while  on  each  back  is  a  large  red  circle 
covered  with  the  hieroglyph  of  the  building.  They 
may  earn  some  6d.  a  day  for  twelve  long  working 
hours. 

From  among  the  pale  straw-coloured  bales  emerge 
two  workmen.  There  are  patches  in  their  dark-blue 
hose,  and  the  brown  toes  stick  out  through  the  blue  of 
their  divided  socks.  Even  the  blue  designs  on  the 
white  towels  around  their  heads  have  faded  away  with 
much  washing. 

Catching  sight  of  one  another  they  bow  low.  A 
step  nearer,  and  the  jaunty  ends  of  white  towel 
tied  in  a  knot  on  the  forehead  of  one  man,  touch  his 
knee. 

The  other,  whose  towel  is  tied  like  a  nightcap  round 
his  head  and  under  his  chin,  bends  lower  still. 


256  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

Another  step,  and  the  indrawn  whistles  of  politeness 
grow  loud  and  shrill. 

Another,  and  the  white  towels  disappear  entirely 
between  the  blue  legs. 

Then  the  night-capped  one  straightens  himself  and 
speaks : 

"  Shitsurei  de  gozaimas  ga,  c  hot  to  hi  o  kashte 
kudasai "  ("Although  this  is  great  rudeness  on  my 
part,"  he  says,  "would  you  condescend  to  lend  me  a 
match.") 

WEST 

Between  two  rows  of  slovenly  houses  a  long  grey 
street  stretches  away,  wet  and  grimy.  There  is  just 
one  break  in  the  grey  monotony  where  the  gin  palace 
stands  in  all  its  gilt  and  plate-glass  splendour. 

Coming  up  the  street  are  two  workmen.  The  billy- 
cock hats  on  their  heads  have  lost  their  brim,  and 
show  more  dirty  stain  than  original  black.  As  they 
catch  sight  of  one  another  across  the  street  they  pause. 

Suddenly  one  removes  the  clay  pipe  from  his 
lips  and  spits  profusely.  The  other  eyes  him,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets ;  then  he  too  takes  the  short  pipe 
from  between  his  lips,  and  jerking  his  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  public  house,  slowly  puts  out  his 
tongue. 

The  first  billycock  replaces  his  pipe  with  care, 
crosses  the  road,  and  with  a  sanguinary  word  they  both 
disappear  within  the  doors  of  the  gin  palace. 


Ill 

YONE'S   BABY 

IT  lay  on  the  matted  floor,  a  little  brown  thing  that 
cried,  and  Yone  sat  on  her  heels  and  looked  at  it. 

Huddled  over  the  brazier  in  the  corner,  her  skinny 
hands  stretched  out  to  clutch  the  warmth  from  the 
sticks  of  glowing  charcoal,  the  old  grandmother  dozed 
and  grumbled. 

And  Yone  did  not  move.  The  Ijin  San  for  whom 
she  worked  had  told  her  she  ought  to  take  care  of  her 
dead  daughter's  child  and  bring  it  up  ;  but  Yone's  con- 
science, the  conscience  of  her  race,  the  inherited  up- 
bringing of  her  dead  fathers,  made  her  instinctively 
turn  towards  the  O  Ba  San  in  the  corner.  She  could 
not  feed  two  mouths.  Life  was  hard  for  Yone  ;  and 
the  O  Ba  San  had  a  good  appetite  though  she  was  so  old. 

So  Yone  sat  on  her  heels  and  sullenly  listened  to 
the  quavering  wail  without  moving. 

"If  the  gods  wanted  the  child  to  live,  why  had  they 
let  its  mother  die  ?  Why  had  its  father  divorced  the 
little  wife  '  for  temper '  before  the  baby  was  born  ?  It 
was  Fate.  And  after  all  the  baby  was  very  small  and 
ugly,  a  little,  cross  sickly  thing  that  cried.  No,  it  had 
much  better  die,  much  better." 

And  Yone  got  up,  and  went  to  get  ready  the  even- 
ing rice  for  the  O  Ba  San.  As  she  did  so  the  shadow 


258          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

of  the  Ijin  San  herself  fell  across  the  floor,  and  her 
voice,  in  very  English  Japanese,  asked  after  the  baby. 
Yone  was  down  on  her  knees  in  a  moment,  drawing 
in  her  breath  through  her  teeth  in  long  whistles  of 
politeness. 

"The  baby  was  not  well,  as  theT/Vtt  San  could  see. 
It  did  nothing  but  cry ;  and  after  all  what  was  the  use  ? 
It  had  much  better  die." 

The  Ijin  San  sat  down  on  the  little  platform,  the 
shoji  pushed  back  between  her  and  the  room,  in  con- 
sternation. After  all  she  had  said  the  day  before,  all 
she  had  urged,  Yone  still  clung  to  that  awful  idea. 
The  Ijin  San  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the  old  lady 
in  the  corner  had  something  to  do  with  Yone's  idea 
"it  was  better  baby  die."  It  would  be  quite  easy  for 
"  baby  to  die  "  too,  and  that  without  much  active  doing 
on  Yone's  part.  So  she  sat  there  perplexed,  the  baby 
cuddled  up  in  her  arms.  Moral  persuasions  she  had 
tried,  and  appeals  to  Yone's  conscience,  her  love  for 
her  dead  daughter,  her  duty — all  in  vain.  And  she 
looked  down  at  the  queer  little  atom  in  its  bright  red 
kimono,  with  the  wide  flapping  sleeves,  wondering 
whether  it  would  look  quite  so  odd  dressed  like  other 
babies,  her  own  for  instance,  and  she  smiled.  It  was 
a  last  chance  any  way. 

"  Yone,"  she  said,  holding  up  the  baby.  "  How 
would  you  like  to  see  him  dressed  like  the  Bofckan" 

"  He,"  cried  Yone",  turning  round,  her  vanity  awake 
in  a  moment. 

"Well,  if  you'll  take  care  of  him,  I'll  dress  him  in 
foreign  clothes,  and  he'll  look  just  like  the  Bofchan" 

Yone's  strangled  "  h's  "  of  admiration  grew  deeper 
and  deeper.  Her  admiration  for  the  Ijin  Sans 
Bofchan  knew  no  bounds  ;  and  then  the  pride  of  having 


YOKE'S  BABY  259 

a  foreign-dressed  baby  of  her  own  !  Why,  not  one  of 
her  acquaintances,  not  even  the  rich  sakt  merchant  at 
the  corner,  dressed  their  children  "foreign  fashion." 
It  was  a  height  beyond  their  ambition,  a  dizzy  pinnacle 
only  reached  by  the  samurai  and  the  Court !  And 
Yon6's  strangled  "  h's  "  of  admiration  and  her  indrawn 
whistles  of  politeness  knew  no  bounds.  Even  the 
O  Ba  San  in  the  corner  turned  her  head  round  and 
showed  some  signs  of  interest.  And  the  baby  stopped 
its  feeble  cry  and  lay  back  on  the  Ijin  Sans  lap — and 
smiled. 

With  a  sudden  swoop  Yone*  caught  it  up.  "  I  take 
care,  I  take  care,"  she  said,  "  let  the  Ijin  San  bring 
the  clothes." 

And  from  that  day  she  went  about  her  work  with 
the  quaintest  little  brown  morsel  in  a  foreign  pelisse 
and  a  white  bonnet  nodding  over  her  shoulder.  And 
neither  the  O  Ba  San  nor  the  baby  ever  went 
hungry  whatever  Yone  might  do. 


IV 
THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  RONIN 

THE  white  wing  of  a  blossoming  plum-tree  casts  a  pale 
shadow  across  the  pebbled  steps  of  the  causeway,  and 
the  spring  sunshine  is  warm.  Behind,  under  the  great 
gate  of  the  temple,  is  a  stall  with  souvenir  tea-bowls 
of  the  Forty-Seven  Ronin  and  the  red  blankets  of  a 
tiny  ckaya.  In  front,  at  the  end  of  the  causeway, 
stands  a  Japanese  father  with  his  little  son,  buying 
bundles  of  incense  sticks  from  the  Buddhist  sexton. 
Coming  up  the  path  are  two  peasants  with  bare,  brown 
legs,  one  wearing  the  old-fashioned  gunhammer  top- 
knot. And  the  plum-tree,  its  scent  warm  and  fragrant, 
lies  a  white  wing  above  the  path. 

The  Japanese  father,  samurai  from  his  face,  and 
modern  by  his  clothes,  and  his  son  have  passed  into 
the  graveyard  before  us.  But  we  all  stand  together  in 
the  little  square  garden  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  with  its 
thickly  clustered  tombstones,  shaped  like  Moses'  Tables 
of  the  Law  in  the  Child's  Bible,  set  in  the  flat  brown 
earth. 

Below,  a  sharply  falling  line  of  dark  green  shrubs  ; 
above,  the  overhanging  trees  of  the  hillside  ;  and  the 
garden  is  quiet  and  still,  with  a  little  chill  of  damp  and 
death  that  sobers  and  subdues. 

Before  each  stone  tablet  on  the  earthen  path  are 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  RONIN          261 

bamboo  vases  filled  with  freshly  cut  branches  of  ever- 
greens, and  the  burning  incense  sticks  trail  a  thin  scarf 
of  smoke  along  the  ground. 

The  two  old  peasants  are  busy  sticking  their  thin, 
brown  incense  tapers  into  the  little  heaps  of  grey  ash — 
to  become  grey  ashes  in  their  turn.  The  little  son  has 
already  lit  his  before  the  tomb  of  Oishi  Kuranosuke  ; 
and  the  father,  gravely  feeling  in  the  pocket  of  his 
"foreign"  coat,  takes  out  a  visiting-card,  and  lays  it 
reverently  among  the  pile  of  others  on  the  grave. 

Then  they  go  away  slowly.  And  I  catch  the  names 
of  Asano  Takumi  no  Kami  and  Kira  Kotsuke  no  Suke, 
and  I  know  that  the  little  son  is  listening  to  the  story 
of  the  Forty-Seven  Ronin. 

For  two  hundred  years  now  they  have  come  up  the 
pebbled  pathway  into  the  graveyard,  country  peasant 
and  Tokyo  gentlemen  coming  with  incense  sticks  and 
flowering  branches,  to  keep  green  the  memory  of  the 
loyal  retainers  who  died  to  revenge  their  lord  :  coming 
in  kimono  and  topknot :  still  coming  in  foreign  clothes 
and  shappo,  for  the  old  spirit  lives  though  the  outer 
form  is  changing.  The  fierce  unswerving  loyalty,  the 
utter  self-sacrifice,  the  tenacity  and  strength  of  the 
Forty-Seven  Ronin  still  stir  the  soul  of  the  modern 
Japanese  under  their  foreign  envelope  as  it  stirred 
the  heart  of  those  fierce  old  samurai^  with  their  hands 
ever  on  the  hiit  of  their  long  two-handed  swords. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  live  under  the  same  heaven  nor 
tread  the  same  earth  as  the  enemy  of  thy  father  or  thy 
master,"  says  the  Scripture.  And  the  Forty-Seven 
died,  and  more  than  died,  to  fulfil  the  commandment. 

In  the  temple  below  their  wooden  effigies  stand  to 
this  day.    Among  them  are  old  men  and  young  boys- 
one  with  the  grey  locks  of  seventy-seven,  one  with  the 


262  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

boyish  cheeks  of  seventeen — but  neither  the  old  man 
nor  the  young  boy  faltered,  through  all  the  long  months 
of  waiting,  in  the  dangerous  moment  of  the  struggle  or 
after.  They  plotted  and  endured ;  they  fought  and 
slew ;  they  brought  the  bloody  head  of  Kira  Kotsuke" 
no  Suke\  washed  in  the  well  beyond  the  plum-tree, 
here  to  the  grave  of  their  dead  lord  ;  they  gave  them- 
selves up  to  Justice ;  they  carried  out  the  sentence  of 
death  on  their  own  bodies  with  their  own  hands — all 
with  the  same  quiet  self-control  which  only  the  sense 
of  a  supreme,  absorbing  duty  can  produce. 

And  the  Forty-Seven  were  buried  here,  in  the  quiet 
cold  graveyard,  beside  the  body  of  their  lord.  And 
when  they  had  been  laid  to  rest  there  came  a  fierce 
two-sworded  samurai  to  the  little  garden,  and,  kneeling 
down  in  front  of  the  tomb  of  Oishi  Kuranosuke\  he 
took  his  dirk  from  his  belt  and  stabbed  himself  above 
the  grave.  For  he  had  insulted  Oishi  Kuranosuke\  in 
the  long  months  of  the  waiting,  thinking  he  had  for- 
gotten his  lord. 

So  they  buried  him  among  the  Forty-Seven,  and 
before  his  tomb  are  flowering  branches  and  burning 
incense  tapers. 

The  two  old  peasants  are  gone,  but  the  sound  of 
coming  steps  is  on  the  pebbled  pathway. 

It  is  the  feet  of  the  nation.  They  come  to  keep 
their  age  long  watch  above  the  graves  of  the  Loyal 
Ronin. 


THE  DOLLS'  FESTIVAL 

ENSHRINED  in  their  white  wooden  boxes  the  dolls  look 
down  ;  and  the  gently  drifting  crowd  stare  their  fill. 

It  is  the  eve  of  the  Dolls'  Festival,  and  for  a  hun- 
dred yards  along  the  wide  Odori,  the  street  is  wreathed 
across  and  across  with  swaying  lines  of  paper  lanterns. 

On  each  matted  floor,  raised  knee-high  from  the 
ground,  a  shopman  sits  on  his  heels,  his  hands  eternally 
stretched  out  over  the  charcoal  fire  of  the  hibachi. 

The  background  of  dolls  on  three  sides  of  him  seem 
as  interested  in  their  sale  as  he.  The  crowd  drifts, 
talks,  points,  looks,  but  he  sits  still,  absorbed  in  his 
occupation.  Occasionally  he  will  turn  a  languid  head 
over  one  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  an  inquiring  voice, 
and  tranquilly  name  a  price  four  times  bigger  than  he 
expects  to  get ;  but  unless  the  customer  pursues  the 
bargain  with  vigour  he  does  not  stir.  Even  then,  all 
the  talking  is  done  without  moving  more  than  a  head. 
And  when  the  culminating  point  arrives  at  which  the 
would-be  buyer  shakes  the  dust  off  his  feet  and  makes 
vigorously  for  the  next  shop,  he  murmurs  an  impassive 
11  Yoroshi"  ("All  right"),  and  warms  another  finger, 
while  a  boy  in  the  background,  who  for  ever  dusts 
the  stock-in-trade,  does  up  the  parcel  and  takes  the 
money. 


264  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

I  wonder — would  anything  stir  this  blast  image  of 
indifference  ? 

Perhaps  if  a  fool  or  a  foreigner,  interchangeable 
terms  in  the  East,  paid  the  price  he  asked  he  might 

.  No,  "  YoroskT, yoroshi"  he  murmurs,  and  does 

not  interrupt  the  warming  of  his  hands  by  a  finger's- 
breadth. 

For  ten  long  days  now  the  dolls,  all  in  the  quaint 
robes  of  old,  have  looked  down  on  the  gently  drift- 
ing crowd,  emperor  and  empress,  lords  and  ladies, 
and  court  musicians.  The  red  silk  trousers  and  the 
flowing  hair,  the  cut-glass  chandelier-like  head-dress 
and  the  wide,  wide  sleeved  kimono ;  the  court  lady 
leading  her  lap-dog ;  the  musicians  with  their  instru- 
ments ;  and  along  the  lower  shelves,  the  long  pro- 
cession of  lacquered  bowls,  and  tables  and  furniture, 
the  old,  old  shapes  of  Old  Japan,  the  realities  buried 
for  ever  in  museums,  and  only  these,  their  midget 
substitutes,  enjoying  a  brief  life  once  a  year. 

They  are  so  neat  and  pretty,  of  such  exquisite  work- 
manship and  finish,  that  I  stay  to  look  and  look. 
Behind  me  the  crowd  closes  in  thicker  and  thicker, 
looking  too — but  at  me  ;  so  thickly  that  they  obstruct 
the  rails  of  Tokyo's  main  tramway,  and  cause  it  much 
embarrassment. 

To-morrow  is  the  Dolls'  Festival,  and  all  the  world 
is  buying ;  I,  too,  would  like  to  buy.  So  I  sit  still  on 
the  edge  of  the  matted  floor  and  watch.  I  shall 
learn  what  I  ought  to  give  and  how  to  conduct  the 
intricate  matter  of  a  purchase.  But  though  they  were 
here  before  me,  and  though  they  stay  long  after  me, 
and  though  I  wait  with  what  I  consider  quite  Oriental 
patience,  they  do  not  buy,  not  one  of  them,  they 
only  talk.  So  I  am  compelled  to  conduct  my  own 


THE  DOLLS'  FESTIVAL  265 

purchase  without  the  aid  of  native  example,  and 
to  the  certain  advantage  of  the  impassive  shopman. 

Does  any  one  ever  buy  anything  in  Tokyo  ? 

In  all  my  many  wanderings  I  have  never  seen  them, 
patiently  as  I  have  stalked  them.  They  are  always 
just  going — just  going — just  going 

Perhaps  that  is  why  the  impassive  shopmen  are  so 
impassive. 


VI 

» 

WITH  DEATH  BESIDE  HER 

"  Go-han  wa  skoshi  mo  arimasen"  ("Not  another 
grain  of  rice,  not  a  grain  ").  And  O  Matsu  sat  back 
on  her  heels,  the  lid  of  the  wooden  rice  saucepan 
clutched  in  her  hand. 

"  Skoshi  mo  arimasen  "  And  the  grey  head,  with  its 
cropped  hair  gathered  into  a  slide  behind,  bent  des- 
pairingly over  the  saucepan. 

The  O  hachi  was  quite  empty,  O  Matsu  had  eaten 
the  last  grain  yesterday ;  she  knew  that  quite  well,  but 
the  trembling  old  fingers  went  on  feeling  round  and 
round  the  bare  sides  of  the  saucepan,  for  she  was  very 
hungry.  All  through  the  long  months  of  the  rice 
famine  O  Matsu  had  managed  somehow.  To-day  the 
empty  O  hachi  lay  on  the  ground  while  O  Matsu  sat 
staring  slowly  into  it.  Then  Death  stared  back  at  her, 
and  she  knew  it. 

With  a  trembling  little  movement  she  got  on  to  her 
feet  and  moved  across  the  matted  floor  into  the  zashki. 
The  sun  was  shining  on  the  rice-paper  panes  of  the 
shoji,  and  she  pushed  them  back  and  stood  out  on  the 
little  platform  of  polished  wood,  trying  to  warm  her- 
self ;  but  the  piercing  winter  wind  made  her  blackened 
teeth  chatter,  and  she  came  in  again.  In  the  hibachi 
the  grey  ashes  were  dead  and  cold,  the  last  stick  of 


WITH  DEATH  BESIDE  HER  267 

charcoal  had  boiled  the  water  for  her  tea  last  night. 
There  was  neither  fire  nor  food.  O  Matsu  stood  still 
watching,  while  Death  and  his  Shadow  grew,  as  a  ghost 
in  the  twilight. 

Slowly  the  familiar  walls,  the  matted  floor,  the  half- 
opened  shoji  insisted  that  the  house  was  yet  unswept, 
the  first  duty  of  a  housewife  still  undone ;  and  with  a 
painful  effort  O  Matsu  went  and  fetched  the  bamboo 
broom  that  swept  the  matting,  and  the  damp  cloth  to 
polish  the  platform.  The  broom  felt  heavy  to  the  weak 
old  hands,  and  the  task  of  polishing  the  platform 
almost  beyond  her  strength ;  so  she  worked  on  slowly, 
stopping  often,  for  hunger  made  her  faint,  but  always 
going  on  again.  At  last,  zashki  and  platform  finished, 
she  crept  back  into  the  kitchen,  longing  to  rest. 
The  empty  O  hachi  lay  on  the  floor.  She  made  a  great 
effort,  and,  picking  it  up,  carried  it  outside  to  scrub, 
for  cleanliness  is  a  supreme  duty  in  Japan. 

When  she  came  back  she  put  the  freshly  scrubbed 
O  hachi  in  its  place.  Then  she  sat  down.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  do.  The  house  was  as  clean  as  a 
house  could  be.  O  Matsu  was  inexpressibly  weary, 
and  the  desire  for  food  was  almost  beyond  control. 
Instinctively  she  wandered  back  to  the  empty  O  hachi 
and  took  off  the  lid.  The  copper  bands,  dim  and 
splashed  with  the  washing,  caught  her  eye.  It  seemed 
to  her  the  hardest  thing  of  all  her  life  to  go  and  fetch 
her  little  cloth  and  sit  down  to  polish  them,  but  she 
did  it.  And  Death  and  his  Shadow  sat  down  at  her 
side. 

Somehow  as  she  rubbed,  two  tears  gathered  in  the 
dim  old  eyes,  and  rolled  down  the  withered  cheeks. 
O  Matsu  dropped  the  cloth,  and  holding  the  long 
sleeve  of  her  kimono  before  her  face,  sat  still  and  wept. 


268  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

There  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  so  lonely  as  a 
Japanese  woman  without  husband  or  children.  She 
has  no  claim  on  her  own  family,  and  little  on  her 
husband's  ;  and  in  a  land  where  the  children,  once 
grown  up,  provide  for  their  parents,  what  can  a 
childless  widowed  old  woman  do  ? 

The  sun  moved  round  the  house,  and  O  Matsu  still 
sat  in  her  kitchen  rubbing  softly  at  the  copper  bands 
of  the  saucepan.  And  death,  in  infinite  pity,  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  head,  and  his  Shadow  vanished. 

"  O  meshi  wa  skoshi  mo  arimasen"  she  said.  And 
the  shaven  old  eyebrows  puckered  themselves  together. 
"  Skoshi  mo  arimasen"  And  the  bent  little  figure 
went  on  rubbing. 

When  the  policeman  came  in  the  grey  dawn  of  the 
morning,  surprised  that  the  amado  were  not  drawn, 
he  found  O  Matsu,  the  polished  copper  bands  of  the 
O  hachi  glittering  in  her  lap — quite  dead. 


MIDNIGHT  and  yet  as  hot  as  midday.  Over  our  heads 
the  velvet  darkness  lay  as  a  visible  lid  above  the  streets, 
warm  and  still.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring  from 
one  end  of  Kyoto  to  the  other  ;  the  city  seemed  a  vast 
dark  house  with  all  its  windows  shut.  Only  the  rapid 
running  of  the  kurumaya  produced  the  slightest  breeze, 
and  that  was  but  the  fanning  of  a  heated  ballroom  ; 
and  when  it  stopped  the  hot  still  air  settled  down 
hotter,  stiller,  than  before. 

We  had  reached  the  bank  of  the  river,  the  bridge 
and  Theatre  Street  lay  beyond ;  and,  as  suddenly  as  one 
opens  a  door  in  a  dark  passage,  we  were  there,  inside, 
in  the  press  and  the  noise,  the  lights  and  the  crowd  of 
Kyoto's  nightly  soiree, 

Restaurants  and  hairpin  stalls,  geisha  booths  and 
theatres,  the  interesting  show  of  the  two-headed  fish, 
or  the  tragic  story  of  the  Forty-seven  Ronin,  em- 
broideries, and  birv.,  jugglers  and  phonographs,  cheap 
stalls  for  the  sale  of  shaved  ice  and  sugar  syrup, 
elegant  restaurants  with  fish  dinners  ;  dancing-booths 
at  two  sen  a  head,  where  white-painted  geisha  girls 
continually  sang  four  notes  and  assumed  four  pos- 
tures, and  sang  the  same  four  notes  and  repeated 
the  same  four  postures  to  a  tightly  packed  audience 


270  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

sitting  on  its  heels,  silent  but  appreciative ;  and 
all,  restaurants,  booths,  theatres,  stalls,  blazed  with 
lights  and  posters,  deafened  with  the  banging  of 
big  drums  and  the  invitations  of  the  proprietors, 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  burning  tallow,  the  fragrance 
of  boiling  tea,  the  scent  of  crushed  geranium,  the  odour 
of  an  eastern  summer's  night  and  of  the  press  of  clean- 
washed,  hot  humanity. 

Along  the  street,  inside  the  stalls  and  out,  the  crowd 
was  dense,  cheerful,  polite  and  contented.  There  was 
no  pushing,  no  ill-humour,  no  fights,  no  drunkenness, 
nor  one  policeman.  The  people  of  Kyoto  were  en- 
joying themselves  like  well-bred  guests  in  a  ballroom, 
with  the  courtesy  of  self-control,  and  the  self-abandoned 
pleasure  of  a  child.  The  road  with  its  shifting  crowd, 
and  the  two  long  lines  of  brightly  lighted  buildings, 
covered  with  paper  lanterns  and  cotton  banners  on 
bamboo  poles,  looked  more  like  a  "set"  in  a  theatre  than 
real  houses  in  an  out-of-doors  street.  Not  a  candle-flame 
quivered,  not  a  banner  stirred,  and  the  long  perspective 
of  the  arched  bridge  was  still  as  a  painted  background. 

Down  in  the  river,  in  the  actual  bed  of  the  stream, 
were  more  lights,  whole  crowded  restaurants  afloat. 
Sitting  on  the  tops  of  tables,  whose  four  legs  driven 
down  into  the  sand  brought  them  within  six  inches  of 
the  water,  supper  parties  innumerable  ate  and  talked  ; 
while  the  children,  slipping  off  their  gheta,  paddled 
their  feet  in  the  stream.  Even  the  little  waitresses,  as 
they  ran  from  customer  to  customer,  would  leave  the 
long  polished  gangways  that  led  from  tea-house  to 
table,  and  take  the  shorter  way  through  the  water. 
Every  one  was  eating,  and  every  one  was  happy — 
shaved  ice  with  sugar  syrup,  at  two  sen  a  glass,  or 
dishes  of  brown  eels  and  rice  at  two  yen,  gratuitous 


KYOTO'S  SOIREE  271 

tea  or  blru  in  thirty-sen  bottles.  And  with  the  summer 
night  above,  the  water  all  around,  the  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  little  tables  floated  on  the  water  bright 
with  kimono  and  lanterns.  The  broad  shallow  back- 
water either  side  the  bridge  was  full  of  them,  and  the 
gentle  rushing  of  the  actual  river  beyond  the  circle  of 
bright  light  lent  a  sense  of  freshness  to  the  shadows 
that  they  did  not  in  themselves  possess. 

Up  on  the  bridge  the  crowd  grew  thicker,  Theatre 
Street  more  full ;  the  hairpin  stalls  were  surrounded 
with  women  and  little  girls,  buying  long  hairpins 
carved  at  the  end,  or  ornamented  with  silk  lanterns 
or  flowers,  or  ingenious  designs  of  tortoises  made  of 
shells,  with  legs  that  quivered  realistically.  And  the 
velvet  blackness  lying  above  the  streets  and  beyond 
the  river  was  warm  to  feel. 

Suddenly,  as  when  one  throws  a  stone  into  the 
water,  the  crowd  surged  forwards,  then  rippled  slowly 
back  ;  half  a  dozen  white-uniformed  policemen,  with 
the  distinctive,  distinguished  face  of  the  samurai, 
were  coming  over  the  bridge,  driving  the  people 
before  them,  back  and  back.  The  confused  noise  of 
indistinct  shouting  filled  the  air.  Suddenly  on  to  the 
bridge  came  running  in  a  sort  of  jog-trot  a  crowd  of 
bareheaded  men,  their  short  white  tunics  hardly 
reaching  to  the  thigh  and  their  brown  legs  naked 
beneath,  all  tugging  and  straining  at  a  huge  unwieldy 
car,  which  moved  in  jerks  on  its  wheels  of  solid  wood. 
On  each  side  ran  bands  of  men  brandishing  flaming 
torches  in  their  hands,  while  priests  in  gorgeous 
apparel  came  behind.  And  priests  and  people,  torch- 
bearers  and  car-pullers,  were  chanting  as  they  ran,  a 
fierce,  wild  cry,  which  went  on  and  on.  The  car- 
pullers  swayed  from  side  to  side,  tossing  their  hands 


272  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

above  their  heads,  the  torch-bearers  rocked,  sending 
great  flaming  fragments  among  the  crowd,  and  we  all 
stood  pressed  together,  shrinking  back  from  the 
burning  torches,  and  the  feet  of  the  car-pullers,  singed 
here,  trampled  there,  in  one  sweating  mass  of  hot 
humanity. 

In  the  middle  of  the  bridge  the  car  stood  still.  The 
men  in  white  tunics  moved  restlessly  on  their  feet, 
straining  at  the  cords ;  the  torch-bearers  chanted 
louder,  tossing  their  torches  in  the  air  ;  the  priests 
hurried  to  the  front,  and  stood  gesticulating  while  the 
wild,  monotonous  cry,  gathering  fierceness  and  frenzy 
from  its  very  monotony,  thundered  and  roared.  Then 
with  a  sudden  swirl  the  car  turned  round,  and  torch- 
bearers,  car-pullers  and  priests  were  rushing  back 
again  to  the  same  fierce  wild  cry,  the  same  frenzied 
swaying  of  the  bodies,  and  the  same  mad  tossing  of 
the  arms.  The  sacred  procession  had  come,  was 
gone. 

Slowly  the  crowd  rippled  back,  on  over  the  bridge, 
back  down  the  street,  the  policemen  disappeared,  the 
drums  of  the  geisha  booths  and  the  invitations  of  the 
stall-owners  rang  out  again.  Down  on  the  surface  of 
the  river  the  floating  tables  grew  fuller  and  fuller, 

Kyoto's  nightly  soiree  was  at  its  height, 


VIII 
NO 

A  ROOM  whose  sloping  floor  is  cut  into  chess-board 
squares  ;  each  square  flat  and  matted,  so  that  the  back 
is  twelve  inches  high  and  level  with  the  front  of  the 
square  above  ;  a  bare  still  wooden  room  long  and 
crowded.  Each  matted  square  thick  with  kneeling 
men  and  women,  the  long-headed  aquiline  faces  of 
the  nobles  and  the  samurai.  At  the  end  a  platform 
with  an  opening  vaguely  leading  from  it.  No  scenery, 
no  footlights,  no  curtain.  It  is  the  theatre  for  the 
performance  of  the  No.  Those  sacred  old  world 
plays  written  many  hundred  years  ago,  acted  by 
samurai  for  samurai,  the  religious  mysteries  and 
moralities  of  Japan. 

In  the  West  the  theatre  long  ago  shook  off,  escaped, 
forgot  the  Church.  Here  the  elder  child,  the  mother 
rather,  still  lives  by  the  side  of  her  offspring,  and  lives 
unchanged.  The  No  to-day  is  as  the  No  of  five 
hundred  years  ago,  the  No  which  grew  out  of  the 
sacred  dances  of  an  immemorable  antiquity.  Like  the 
drama  of  the  Greeks  it  has  its  choruses,  its  chants,  its 
unities,  its  one  or  two  actors  masked,  richly  dressed, 
impressive,  who  move  with  a  religious  solemnity,  and 
speak  as  voices,  not  as  men.  Its  plays,  too,  are  drawn 
from  sacred  legend,  from  the  mythology  of  Shinto 


274          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

deities,  from  the  mysteries  of  the  Buddhist  faith,  and 
from  the  fairy  tales  of  the  race.  Over  it  all  there  is  a 
glamour  as  of  a  stolen  glimpse  into  the  buried  past. 
To-day  its  language  is  archaic,  but  preserved  by  con- 
stant repetition,  handed  down  from  father  to  son  in 
the  families  of  nobles  who,  since  No  first  began,  have 
played  in  No,  it  remains  the  language  and  the  speech 
of  those  dead  Japanese,  who  towards  the  fourteenth 
century  organised  the  No. 

The  chant  is  strange  and  piercing,  its  very  notes 
and  phrases  are  outside  of  all  that  we  consider  music, 
as  unfamiliar  as  the  speech  of  insects,  or  the  song  of 
the  remotest  fathers  of  mankind.  It  echoes  like  a 
voice  from  out  the  long  dead  worlds,  piercing  yet  re- 
mote, and  the  tink  of  pipes  dies  out.  There  falls  a 
stillness  in  the  room. 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  the  lidamachi 
No.  As  in  the  theatres  of  Greece  the  plays,  each  of 
which  lasts  about  two  hours,  are  given  one  after 
another  throughout  the  whole  day,  while  between  them 
comes  the  Kiogen  (mad  words),  or  folies  dramatiques, 
farce-like,  Greek-like  comedies,  shorter  even  than  the 
No.  Many  of  the  spectators  have  been  here  since 
the  morning,  and  on  the  matting  of  the  shallow  square 
boxes  are  lacquered  trays  of  food,  on  all  teapots  and 
tobacco-stands ;  others  come  to  see  a  special  play  or 
so  and  go  away  again  ;  but  to  one  and  all  it  is  not  an 
amusement,  it  is  a  study,  a  homage  paid  to  the  past,  a 
rite. 

As  the  first  notes  of  the  strange  piercing  chant  wail 
down  the  room,  the  pipes  and  cigarettes  go  out,  the 
tiny  teabowls  are  set  down,  and  a  silence  falls. 

The  actors,  in  their  rich  brocaded  robes  of  a  make 
and  texture  of  a  long  dead  past,  come  slowly  through 


NO  275 

the  passage-way  on  to  the  platform.  Their  masks  are 
made  of  lacquer,  and  they  speak  in  a  slow  nasal  deep 
voice  that  seems  to  come  from  the  very  back  of  their 
throats.  They  speak  with  every  muscle  strained  and 
taut.  It  sounds  almost  as  outside  of  speech  as  the 
chant  is  outside  of  music,  and  they  move  in  strange 
long  strides.  Such  movements  are  not  merely  for 
artistic  effect,  nor  to  mark  agitation,  or  to  reproduce 
nature  ;  they  are  often  used  to  mark  the  passing  of  a 
period  of  time. 

For  all  its  stiffness  and  its  rigour,  its  archaic  make- 
believes,  its  unnatural  realities,  there  is  an  intensity 
and  a  thrill  in  it  as  of  a  living  thing  that  matters.  The 
strange  music  of  the  tambourine-like  instruments,  the 
thin  wailing  of  the  bamboo  flute,  the  beating  of  the  one 
small  drum,  shaped  like  an  hour-glass  with  three  sup- 
porting pillars,  breaks  in  again  and  again  upon  the 
intoned  speech  of  the  actors  with  its  repeated  irregular 
cadences  in  notes  outside  of  speech.  And  the  long- 
robed  figures,  masked  and  rigid,  stalk  slowly  across 
the  stage  ;  and  the  chant  of  the  chorus,  as  in  the 
plays  of  Greece,  explains,  comments,  describes  the 
action. 

It  is  the  story  of  the  fisherman  who  found  an  angel's 
robe  of  feathers  on  a  tree,  and  would  not  give  it  back 
though  the  angel  begged  and  begged.  Without  it  she 
cannot  reach  her  home  in  the  blue  of  the  heavens 
above,  and  for  a  heavenly  spirit  to  stay  for  long  on 
earth  means  death.  Already  the  chorus  is  chanting 
her  dirge  when  the  fisherman,  seeing  her  beauty  fading 
and  her  life  ebbing  fast,  relents.  He  will  give  back 
the  robe  if  she  will  dance  for  him.  She  promises,  but 
implores  first  her  robe  that  the  dance  may  be  more 
perfect.  The  fisherman  fears  she  will  deceive  him 


276  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

and  fly  back  to  heaven  at  once.  But  the  spirit  turns 
upon  him. 

"  Fie  on  thee,  fisherman,"  she  cries,  "  deception  was 
born  of  man  ;  the  high  heavens  know  not  of  it." 

And,  touched,  he  gives  back  the  robe.  She  dances, 
while  the  chorus  sings  the  beauties  of  the  landscape, 
of  Japan.  How 

"  Heaven  has  its  joys,  but  there  is  beauty  here, 

Here 

Where  the  moon  in  bright  unclouded  glory 
Shines  on  Kigomi's  lea. 
And  where  on  Fujiyama's  summit  hoary 
The  snows  look  on  the  sea." 

Even  the  angel  would  stay  awhile  in  a  land  so 
beautiful 

"  Blow,  blow  ye  winds  that  the  white  cloud-belt  driven 
Around  my  path  may  bar  my  homeward  way, 
Not  yet  would  I  return  to  Heaven." 

And  still  the  angel  dances,  and  the  vision  of  Heaven 
descends  upon  earth.  She  sings, 

"  And  from  the  cloudy  spheres, 
Chiming  in  unison  the  angels'  lutes, 
Tabrets  and  cymbals,  and  sweet  silv'ry  flutes 
Ring  through  the  heav'n  that  glows  with  purple  hues." 

Then  the  voices  fall  away.  And  to  the  strange, 
tuneless  music,  whose  notes  are  not  our  notes,  the 
spirit  dances  on,  round  and  round  in  gliding  circles, 
with  the  slow,  smooth  movements  of  the  sacred 
Kagura. 

"  Fragrant  and  fair — too  fair  for  mortal  eyes." 

The  chorus  sings  again.  And  gliding  round  and 
round  in  circles  ever  smoother,  ever  slower,  the  spirit 
passes  from  the  platform  and  up  the  vague  passage-way 
that  leads  to  the  green-room  beyond. 


NO  277 

The  fisherman  starts.  The  play  is  ended.  In  long, 
stiff  strides,  so  slow,  so  slow,  that  an  appreciable  space 
of  time  seems  set  around  the  movement  of  each  muscle, 
the  actor  goes  across  the  stage,  up  the  vague  passage- 
way, into  the  room  beyond. 

It  is  five  minutes  before  the  last  slow  solemn  stride 
takes  him  beyond  our  sight.  Then  hour-glass  drum, 
the  flute,  the  two  tambourine-like  instruments  that 
wail,  shake  out  their  last  weird  tuneless  tune.  The 
chant  of  the  chorus  ends  on  a  note  that  to  us  is  a 
middle — and  stops. 

My  ears  still  wait  the  end  of  the  phrase  when  the 
hush  of  intense  silence  dissolves.  There  is  a  rustle 
in  each  square  shallow  box,  a  lighting  of  tiny  bronze 
pipes  and  cigarettes,  a  filling  of  tea-cups,  a  tapping  of 
chopsticks. 

The  No  is  over. 

NOTE. — In  quoting  from  this  No,  "The  Robe  of  Feathers,"  I  have 
followed  Mr.  B.  H.  Chamberlain's  translation  in  "  The  Classical  Poetry 
of  the  Japanese." 


IX 
A  JAPANESE  BANK-HOLIDAY 

THE  bulletins  grew  longer,  and  all  the  world  waited 
and  watched. 

The  Japanese  papers  were  full  of  minute  descriptions 
and  hopeful  prognostications.  The  cherry-trees  were 
doing  well ;  they  were  expected  to  bloom  next  week. 

Then  came  a  cold  wind  and  rain ;  "  for  flowers,"  as 
the  proverb  says,  "  bring  showers."  And  the  bulletins 
became  paragraphs. 

But  the  sky  grew  blue  again,  and  even  the  foreign 
papers  broke  through  their  Western  disdain,  and 
announced  that  "  Marquis  I  to  had  gone  to  Kyoto  to 
see  the  cherry-trees."  Imagine  the  7^imes  gravely 
recording  amongst  its  official  intelligence  that  "  Mr. 
Balfour  had  gone  to  Devonshire  (not  a  third  of  the 
journey)  to  see  the  apple-blossoms  "  !  But  the  Japanese 
are,  of  course,  uncivilised ! 

On  Easter  Monday  the  trees  were  out,  and  all  the 
world  with  them.  The  two  long  miles  of  river-bank  at 
Mukojima  were  crowded.  The  river  itself  was  thick 
with  sampan.  And  still  all  Tokyo  pours  itself  out 
over  the  bridges,  across  the  canals,  out  under  the  long 
double  line  of  cherry-trees. 

The  chrysanthemum  may  well  be  the  Imperial 
crest ;  the  cherry-tree  is  the  national  emblem,  and  its 


A  JAPANESE  BANK-HOLIDAY  279 

flowering  a  national  f&te — a  Japanese  Bank  Holiday, 
with  Mukojima  for  its  Hampstead  Heath. 

The  two  long  miles  of  raised  hank  is  a  sea  of  heads, 
a  second  black  river  set  between  pale  pink  banks  ; 
and  it  washes  slowly,  undisturbedly  onwards.  No- 
body pushes,  nobody  shouts,  nobody  calls  rude  remarks. 
And  the  blue-tuniced  coolies,  like  Florentine  noblemen 
out  at  elbows,  with  the  work-a-day  blue  towel  round 
their  heads  replaced  by  a  pink  one,  the  very  shade  of 
the  cherry-blossoms  above,  say  polite  "  Go  men  nasai" 
("I  beg  your  honourable  pardon")  if  in  looking  up- 
wards they  stumble  against  each  other. 

The  kurumaya  has  drawn  his  wife  and  children  to 
Mukojima,  and  they  wander  slowly  under  the  trees, 
the  little  ones  in  their  gay-coloured  kimono,  covered 
with  the  largest  of  large  flowers.  Even  the  little 
tonsured  babies  blink  up  at  the  pink  wonder  over- 
head from  the  warm  pouch  on  their  mother's  backs. 
And  the  old  grandmothers,  with  their  cropped  grey 
heads  and  shaven  eyebrows,  tell  how  the  cherry-trees 
were  much  finer  when  they  were  young.  The  little 
girls,  with  their  hair  oiled  into  lengths  of  black  ribbons 
and  tied  in  loops  on  the  top  of  their  heads  ;  the  young 
wife,  with  the  wonderful  whorls  of  the  married  woman's 
coiffure  ;  the  bare-legged,  blue-knickerbockered  ricksha 
man  ;  the  schoolboys,  with  their  striped  cotton  hakama  ; 
the  fathers,  in  their  grey  kimono — all  the  working 
world,  all  the  people  are  here. 

Below  the  level  of  the  bank,  raised  high  here,  for 
the  Sumidagawa,  like  all  the  rivers  of  Japan,  is  fierce 
in  its  floods,  and  set  thick  together,  are  the  chaya. 
These  range  from  the  humblest  little  roofed  shed, 
with  its  broad,  low  tables,  like  a  series  of  large  trays 
on  dwarf  legs,  covered  with  coarse  red  blankets,  to  the 


280  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

superb  tea-houses  with  their  snow-white  matted  rooms, 
their  painted  shoji.  And  they  are  all  full.  The 
kurumaya  drinks  his  bowl  of  pale  green  tea,  sitting  on 
his  heels  on  the  red  blanket.  The  little  wife  tries  the 
immensely  popular  drink  of  ramune  (lemonade)  out  of 
a  doll's  tumbler.  The  coolie,  with  his  festive  pink  towel, 
pours  warm  sake  from  slim  china  vases  into  tiny  china 
bowls,  and  the  smile  on  his  broad,  bullet-headed  face 
grows  broader.  For  the  sake  drinker,  unlike  Western 
drunkards,  only  becomes  politer  and  politer,  until  the 
Japanese  smile  of  courtesy  broadens  into  a  large,  fixed, 
unending,  amiable  grin,  and  the  sake  drunkard  goes 
politely,  though  stumblingly,  home  to  sleep.  But  of  even 
sake  drunkenness  there  is  little,  for  the  most  part  o  cha 
(honourable  tea)  and  o  kashi  (honourable  cakes)  con- 
tent these  uncivilised  Bank  Holiday-makers,  who  have 
come  out  to  see — just  the  pink  cherry-blossoms  against 
the  blue  sky.  And  will  go  home  again — content. 

On  the  river  the  red  towels  are  perhaps  more 
numerous,  for  all  the  fishermen,  all  the  dock  labourers, 
the  whole  riverside  population  of  Tokyo  have  come  in 
their  sampan  to  Mukojima.  And  they  float  past  now, 
little  and  big,  crowded  with  blue  tunics  or  grey  kimono. 
Some  with  an  awning  of  paper  lanterns,  and  all  gay 
with  flags  and  banners.  And  full  as  the  river  is  with 
boats,  and  jammed  together  as  they  are  under  the 
bank,  nobody  shouts,  nobody  quarrels,  nobody  swears. 
A  garden  party  at  Windsor  Castle  might  be  better 
dressed,  it  could  hardly  be  better  behaved.  Nor  in 
the  whole  length  of  those  two  miles  of  crowded  bank, 
with  the  line  of  sampan  on  one  side  and  the  line  of 
public-houses  on  the  other — sampan,  avenue,  inns,  all 
full  to  overflowing — are  there  three  policemen.  More, 
the  trees,  with  their  exquisite  cloud  of  pink  flowers, 


A  JAPANESE  BANK-HOLIDAY  281 

are  within  easy  reach  of  a  man's  arm,  and  nobody 
breaks  them.  The  municipality  of  Tokyo  has  not 
even  considered  it  necessary  to  affix  a  notice  regarding 
the  penalty  for  damaging  trees.  I  should  doubt  if  it 
had  even  thought  to  invent  one. 

And  yet    the   blossoms   are    beautiful    enough   to 
make  a  man's  heart  long  to  possess  them. 

"  A  little  pink  cloud  of  the  sunset  has  caught  in  the 
bare  branches  of  the  cherry-tree."  And  not  all  Western 
imagery  can  surpass  the  simile,  for  the  pink  is  the  pink 
of  a  cloud  at  sunset,  and  soft  as  the  softest  mist. 
When  the  wind  stirs  the  trees,  the  blue  sky  seems 
scattering  pink  snowflakes  to  the  ground. 

"  What  is  the  soul  of  Japan  ? "  asked  the  poet.  "It 
is  the  mountain  cherry-tree  in  the  morning  sun." 

But  a  soul  so  simple,  the  civilised  nations,  of  course, 
disdain ! 


X 
THE   PALACE  OF  THE    SON  OF  HEAVEN 

KYOTO  is  a  city  of  immense  distances  where  the  brown 
earth  streets,  set  in  between  their  rows  of  low  brown 
houses,  run  on  interminably.  Even  under  the  weltering 
summer  sky  the  streets  are  full  ;  for  Kyoto,  the  once- 
time  capital,  is  still  the  second  city  of  the  Empire,  and 
the  art  centre  of  Japan.  My  kurumaya  scatters  men 
and  children  as  he  runs  ;  and  the  sounds  of  busy  bar- 
gaining, the  inevitable  takai  (too  much),  following  the 
ikura  des  ka  (how  much  ?)  pursue  me  as  I  ride. 

At  each  corner  two  more  streets  stretch  out,  as 
straight  as  interminable,  as  full  of  life.  And  still  my 
kurumaya  runs. 

I  am  going  to  see  the  Emperor's  Palace.  Through 
many  hundred  years,  through  most  that  is  history  in 
Japan,  the  Son  of  Heaven  dwelt  in  the  heart  of  this 
city,  and  these  long  interminable  streets  so  full  of  Mfe 
stretched  all  around  him.  The  Tenshisama  lived  in  the 
midst  of  his  people,  and  neither  saw  nor  heard. 

We  have  left  the  streets  at  last ;  on  either  hand  stand 
railed-in  squares  of  growing  trees  ;  the  road  is  wide 
and  smooth,  the  busy  thousands  in  the  streets  drop  out 
of  sight  and  sound.  My  kurumaya  runs  more  swiftly. 

Here  is  neither  shop  nor  house,  nor  passer-by,  the 
restless  hum  of  life  itself  has  ceased.  It  is  quieter  than 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  SON  OF  HEAVEN  283 

a  forest,  for  in  these  artificial  squares  of  railed-in  trees 
nothing  stirs.  Men's  gardens  are  always  three  parts 
dead. 

The  broad  road  widens  still ;  white  as  fuller's  earth 
and  hard,  it  stretches  like  an  avenue  between  high 
walls  of  smooth  white  brick,  laid  flat  and  thin  as 
Roman  tiles,  on  thick  layers  of  pale  white  mortar. 
Two  carefully  paved-in  streams  of  fresh  grey  water 
run  between  wall  and  road.  And  streams  and  road 
and  walls  go  on  and  on.  It  is  the  Palace  of  the 
Heir  Apparent. 

The  walls  are  twelve  feet  high,  the  stream  is  three 
feet  wide  ;  and  still  my  kurumaya  runs.  The  pale 
white  walls  stretch  down  the  road  like  parallels  in 
Euclid.  It  is  the  Palace  of  the  Princes  of  the  Blood. 

And  still  he  runs.  The  pale  white  walls,  thin  tiles 
set  in  their  thick  layers  of  mortar,  run  as  he  runs. 

I  have  lost  sense  of  the  city  now,  lost  memory  of  the 
gardens,  lost  belief  in  life  itself.  The  world  is  a  dead 
white  road  between  white  walls.  This  is  the  Palace 
of  the  Son  of  Heaven,  one  speck  of  brown  breaks 
the  interminable  line  of  white,  the  carved  gateway 
whence  the  great  Tenshisama  issued  once  a  year  to 
visit  the  temple.  One  other  speck,  the  gate  by  which 
he  returned.  And  then  the  pale  white  walls,  thin  tiles 
set  in  thick  layers  of  mortar,  stretch  out  of  sight. 

Inside  these  miles  of  walls,  in  his  artificial  solitude, 
year  in,  year  out,  the  Son  of  Heaven  dwelt.  The 
life  of  the  city,  surging  through  its  streets,  surged  up 
in  vain  ;  he  could  not  see  it,  hear  it,  nor  conceive  it. 
Lord  of  a  world  he  did  not  know,  the  Son  of  Heaven 
lived,  while  all  around  the  sons  of  earth  fought  and 
toiled,  were  born  and  died,  and  not  a  murmur  of  their 
being  passed  his  Palace  walls.  Shut  up  in  his  rose- 


284  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

garden  world,  fictitious,  quite  unreal,  the  Son  of  Heaven 
augustly  ruled.  And  while  the  thousands  in  the  city 
and  the  millions  in  the  land  held  him  divine,  so  that 
whoso  looked  upon  his  face  did  surely  die,  the  men 
who  looked  usurped  his  power,  crowned  or  deposed 
him  ;  ruled  in  his  name,  but  reigned  supreme,  and 
fought  to  reign.  The  history  of  Japan  lies  there. 
War  and  worship,  divine  unquestioned  right  and  civil 
strife,  never  rebellion,  each  army  fighting  in  the  name 
of  the  ever-sacred  Son  of  Heaven,  to  use  victory  for 
its  own  ends. 

And  the  living  son  of  these  dead  Emperors,  brought 
up  as  they,  Son  of  Heaven  still,  though  without  the 
walls,  a  modern  monarch  holding  levees  and  cabinet 
councils,  does  that  fictitious  rose-garden  world  lie  about 
him  yet  shutting  out  the  real  ? 

"  And  always  in  Japan,"  says  my  kurumaya,   "  the 
Son  of  Heaven  augustly  rules." 
And  he  sings  : 

"  Kimi  ga  yo  wa 
Chiyo  ni  yachiyo  ni 
9azar6  ishi  no 
Iwaho  to  narite 
Kokd  no  musu  mad6." 

"  The  descendants  of  the  Emperor  shall  live  for  a  thousand  times 
ten  thousand  years,  until  the  little  stones  are  grown  great  rocks,  until 
the  great  rocks  are  all  green  with  moss." 


XI 
AND  SHE  WAS  A  WIDOW 

O  MM£  SAN  looked  into  her  son's  eyes  and  saw  that 
they  were  sad. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  the  plum-blossom,  when 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Japan  the 
soldiers  of  the  Empire  were  daily  leaving  for  the 
front ;  for  the  war  with  Russia  had  been  declared,  and 
the  rich  were  giving  of  their  wealth,  the  poor  of  their 
poverty,  and  every  one  of  his  sons.  In  Tokyo  the 
rival  newspapers  had  agreed  to  bury  their  political 
differences  until  the  war  was  over.  An  Osaka 
merchant  had  offered  his  priceless  art  treasures  for 
sale.  On  the  western  coast  the  poor  fishermen, 
forbidden  to  fish  in  the  sea  of  Japan  because  of  the 
danger,  sent  a  petition  to  the  Government  asking  to 
be  allowed  to  go  out  "  as  scouts."  Noble  students  on 
the  far-off  banks  of  the  Sungari  were  risking  an  igno- 
minious death  as  they  crouched  beneath  dark  bridges 
with  dynamite  in  their  hands.  Everywhere,  every  one 
was  giving,  giving,  giving.  Even  in  this  remote 
country  town  each  day  mothers  saw  their  sons  march 
away,  and  bid  them  a  last  "  Sayonara" 

O  Mm6  San  had  been  waiting  many  days,  expecting, 
hoping,  dreading,  and  to-night  in  the  sad  eyes  of  her 
son  she  read  the  long  delayed  summons.  "He  has 


286  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

heard  at  last,"  she  thought.  And  for  one  moment  her 
heart  grew  very  tender  over  this,  her  fatherless  son, 
her  only  boy. 

Then  she  put  away  her  weakness,  for  she  was  the 
wife  and  the  daughter  of  samurai,  and  she  knew  that 
it  was  the  proudest  privilege  of  a  warrior  to  fight  for 
his  lord,  that  it  was  the  most  sacred  duty  of  her 
race  to  give  her  life  and  her  son's  life  to  the 
Emperor.  So,  looking  towards  the  curved  swords  of 
the  family,  which  lay  on  the  tokonoma,  she  began  to 
talk  of  her  husband,  of  the  grim  old  samurai  his 
fathers,  and  to  tell  old  tales  of  battle  and  of  death  that 
made  her  boy's  eyes  glisten,  and  then  look  sadder 
than  before.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  O  Mme  San 
wondered.  She  knew  that  he  had  been  down  to  the 
Prefecture  that  morning.  O  Kiku  San's  two  sons  had 
left  last  week,  O  Hana's  eldest  was  going  to-morrow. 
Surely  her  boy  must  know  when  he  was  leaving,  or 
why  did  his  eyes  look  so  sad  ? 

Then  she  began  to  tell  him  of  all  the  plans  she  had 
thought  of  for  managing  without  him,  for  they  were 
poor.  And  at  last  her  son  looked  up,  and  said,  very 
gently  as  he  took  her  hand  : 

"  Honourably  trouble  not ;  as  for  leaving,  it  is  not  for 
me." 

And  this  time  it  was  O  Mme  San's  turn  to  be 
silent. 

When  dinner  was  over  her  son  went  out  to  his 
work,  and  O  Mme  San  wondered  and  wondered.  The 
wife  and  daughter  of  a  samurai  she  was  eager  to  give, 
give  even  her  only  son  for  Dai  Nippon,  and  the  Son 
of  Heaven.  And  yet  her  boy  was  not  going,  what 
could  it  mean  ? 

It    was    O    Hana    San    who   brought   the   answer. 


AND  SHE  WAS  A  WIDOW  287 

O  Hana  came  in,  very  proud  and  pleased  to  tell  all  the 
last  news  about  her  eldest  and  his  regiment. 

"They  say  these  Russians  are  seven  feet  high," 
she  said,  as  they  sat  opposite  one  another  on  the 
kneeling  cushions  sipping  tea,  "  and  that  they  never 
wash.  And,  just  think,  over  there  in  Cho-sen  (Korea) 
everything  is  still  frozen." 

O  M m£  San  listened.  "  A  warrior  is  always  warm 
enough  when  he  fights,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  long 
curved  swords  which  lay  on  the  tokonoma. 

O  Hana  San  followed  her  glance.  There  were  no 
swords  at  home  on  her  tokonoma. 

"Oh!  fighting's  very  different  nowadays,"  she  said. 
"  My  boy  hasn't  got  a  sword  at  all.  They  only  carry 
guns  now." 

For  O  Hana  was  not  above  a  certain  feeling  of 
pleasure  at  getting  even  with  a  samurai. 

O  Mme  San  bowed,  and  gently  offered  more  tea. 
"That  is  the  Emperor's  will,"  she  said,  in  her  soft, 
low  voice.     "  My  son  will  also  carry  a  gun," 

"  But  your  son  isn't  going,"  cried  O  Hana  San. 
"Didn't  you  know?  The  Prefect  said  yesterday 
something  about  the  law  of  the  Emperor  forbidding 
it.  I  forget  why."  And  she  gave  a  little  giggle  of 
pride  at  the  idea  of  her  son  going  to  the  war  when  the 
son  of  a  samurai  must  stay  at  home. 

O  Mme  San's  hands  trembled  as  she  poured  more 
tea  into  the  tiny  bowls,  but  her  voice  was  as  low  and 
as  gentle  as  ever,  and  she  did  not  abate  one  bow  or 
one  word  of  politeness ;  but  how  glad  she  was  when 
O  Hana  was  gone !  She  sat  back  on  her  heels  after 
her  last  bow,  her  face  flushed  with  anger.  The 
Emperor  would  not  take  her  son !  O  Hana  must  be 
mistaken.  It  could  not  be  true.  But  "the  Prefect 


288  THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

said."  Then  she  would  go  and  ask  the  Prefect.  And 
O  Mme  San  got  up  resolute. 

The  Prefect  was  very  busy,  and  refused  at  first  to 
see  her,  but,  with  the  softest  and  gentlest  politeness, 
O  Mme  San  still  persisted,  and  at  last  she  was  admitted 
into  the  ugly  "  foreign  "  room  where  the  Prefect,  in  a 
frock-coat  and  tweed  trousers,  sat  on  a  "foreign" 
chair.  O  Mme  San  sat  on  the  edge  of  hers  and  held 
her  kimono  tightly  with  both  hands.  She  was  not 
used  to  chairs. 

"  You  wish  to  know  when  Suzuki  Tetsutaro  leaves 
for  the  front.  Honourably  please  to  wait  a  moment." 

O  Mme  San  waited.  The  Prefect,  deep  in  his  work, 
almost  forgot  her.  Something  in  the  tremulous  way 
in  which  she  had  spoken  made  him  think  she  was 
afraid  for  her  boy ;  and  he  was  a  stern  man,  with  the 
sternest  ideas  of  duty  to  the  Emperor.  So  when  the 
answer  came  back  to  him,  he  turned  to  her  somewhat 
coldly. 

"  Suzuki  Tetsutaro  is  exempt  from  service.  It  is 
the  will  of  the  Emperor  that  the  only  son  of  a  widow 
shall  stay  and  take  care  of  his  mother." 

A  great  light  sprang  into  O  Mme  San's  eyes. 
"  Honourably  please  to  say  is  that  the  reason  ?  "  she 
asked,  bowing  low. 

The  Prefect  looked  at  her,  at  the  strange  light 
shining  in  her  eyes  ;  and  in  his  heart  he  regretted  the 
old  stern  times  when  samurai  mothers  sent  out  their 
sons  to  fight  to  victory  or  to  death. 

"  That  is  the  reason,"  he  said,  and  he  bowed  her  out. 

That  night  O  Mme  San  did  not  sleep.  She  sat  up 
looking  at  the  curved  swords  of  her  fathers  and 
thinking. 


AND  SHE  WAS  A  WIDOW  289 

She  knew  now  why  her  son's  eyes  were  sad.  The 
Son  of  Heaven,  in  his  graciousness,  had  wished  to 
spare  the  widow's  son,  but — but  a  subject's  duty  was 
to  give,  give  all,  give  himself,  give  everything  that 
was  most  precious  to  him ;  above  all,  a  samurai  boy 
must  not  stay  at  home  when  peasants'  sons  went  out 
to  fight.  And  in  the  quiet  night,  with  the  blossoming 
plum-tree  stretching  like  a  white  wing  above  the 
house,  Mme  thought. 

This  gentle,  soft-voiced  woman,  tender  as  the  white 
blossoms  overhead  from  which  she  took  her  name,  was 
delicate  as  they;  but  in  her  soul  there  dwelt  that 
subtle,  untouched  fragrance,  the  sense,  of  sacrifice  and 
duty,  which,  like  the  scent  of  the  blossoming  plum-tree, 
penetrated  all  things.  Brought  up  on  the  "greater" 
and  "the  lesser  learning,"  in  the  strict  rule  of  the  three 
obediences — to  father,  husband,  son — O  Mm£  San  had 
lived  her  simple  life,  a  loving,  tender  woman,  exqui- 
site in  grace  and  courtesy ;  but  in  her  heart  there 
burned  that  ecstatic  faith  and  fealty  which  we  have 
never  truly  known,  but  call  by  the  cold  name  of 
loyalty.  So  she  sat  there  and  thought  in  the  still,  dark 
night,  and  all  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  dead, 
all  their  resolutions  and  impulses,  stirred  back  to  life  in 
her  all  the  long  line  of  her  samurai  fathers,  who  had 
fought  and  died,  the  yet  longer  line  of  patient  mothers, 
who  had  endured  and  given  their  sons,  husbands, 
fathers,  called  to  her.  They  were  not  dead  nor  sleep- 
ing. They  were  alive  in  her.  She  sat  and  listened  as 
their  lives  thrilled  through  her  in  the  silence,  and  their 
voices  spoke  aloud  within  her  soul.  It  seemed  a  simple 
thing  to  sacrifice  herself.  She  had  no  fear  of  death, 
rather  a  great  desire.  No  haunting  fear  of  Purgatory 
or  Hell  beset  her.  Even  the  all-loving  Buddha  was 

T 


290          THE  HEART  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

forgotten ;  she  trusted  to  the  older  gods  to-night — 
Amaterasu,  the  great  Sun-Goddess,  from  whom  the 
Son  of  Heaven  himself  descended.  Beyond  the 
shadow  of  this  life  the  great  gods  lived,  and  all  the 
long  line  of  her  fathers  stood  waiting  to  welcome  her. 
When  she  slipped  into  that  light  her  son's  father  him- 
self would  stoop  to  take  her  hand,  content  that  she 
had  proved  herself  worthy  to  be  a  warrior's  wife. 

The  snow-white  mme,  the  blossoming  plum-tree, 
stirred  in  the  cold  night  wind.  "  Chastity,  purity  and 
strength,  womanly  strength,"  it  whispered,  and  its 
pale  soft  blossoms  sighed.  The  fragrance  of  them 
floated  by  in  the  chill  spring  air ;  floated  wide  from 
end  to  end  of  Great  Japan. 

"  Strength,  womanly  strength,"  it  said,  and  O 
Mme  San  looked  up  and  smiled,  a  little  sad,  sweet 
smile.  For  the  strength  of  a  woman  lies  in  the  sacri- 
fice of  herself.  And  getting  up  she  went  to  look  at 
her  boy  tossing  in  his  sleep. 

Then  she  too  slept,  for  she  knew  what  she  had  to 
do ;  and  Shinigawa,  the  Lord  of  Death-Desire,  drew 
near  and  touched  her  as  she  slept. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  the  next  evening  before  every- 
thing was  prepared.  All  her  son's  clothes  mended  and 
ready,  the  house  put  straight,  the  letter  written,  telling 
her  boy  quite  simply  that,  having  learned  the  reason 
why  the  Emperor  in  his  graciousness  would  not  take 
him  for  his  soldier,  she  had  taken  her  own  life  that  he 
might  be  free  to  fight.  On  her  knees  she  thanked  the 
gracious  Tenski-sama,  but  her  son  and  her  son's  life 
were  his  not  hers. 

Then  she  sharpened  her  dagger,  and  when  O  Mme 
San  felt  its  edge  was  keen  enough,  she  knelt  down  on 


AND  SHE  WAS  A  WIDOW  291 

the  matting,  took  off  her  long  silken  under-girdle,  and 
tied  it  carefully  around  her  knees,  for  a  samurai  woman 
must  lie  modestly  even  in  death.  Then  she  felt  in  her 
throat  for  the  artery,  and  with  one  quick  thrust  drove 
the  dagger  home. 

The  Prefect  was  sitting  with  his  family  that  evening 
when  Suzuki  Tetsutaro  came  to  the  house.  He 
carried  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  trembling. 

"Honourably  please  to  take  notice,"  he  said,  "that 
I  am  qualified  to  serve,  for  my  mother  is  dead."  And 
he  handed  the  Prefect  the  paper. 

When  he  had  read  it  the  stern  official  turned  to  the 
lad. 

"  The  detachment  has  not  yet  left  for  headquarters," 
he  said,  writing  rapidly  as  he  spoke.  "  Go  straight  to 
the  station.  Give  this  card  to  the  officer  in  charge. 
I  will  bury  your  mother  and  perform  the  rites." 

Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 
"Suzuki  Tetsutaro,"  he  said,  "your  mother  was 
worthy  of  her  race.  Go,  that  her  spirit  may  have 
peace. " 

So  Suzuki  Tetsutaro  went  straight  to  the  front. 


GLOSSARY 


Aino.  The  aboriginal  inhabit- 
ants of  Japan,  only  found  now 
in  the  North  Island.  A  remark- 
ably hairy,  remarkably  dirty 
race,  with  the  flattened  shin- 
bone  only  occurring  in  skele- 
tons of  the  cave-men.  They 
are  great  hunters  and  fishers. 

Amado.  Sliding  wooden  walls 
which  are  drawn  all  round  a 
Japanese  house  at  night,  com- 
pletely enclosing  it. 

Amaterasu,  lit.  "  Heaven- 
Shiner."  The  Sun -Goddess, 
born  from  the  right  eye  of  the 
Creator  Izanagi. 

Amida  Butsu.  Buddha  as 
Amida.  Originally  Amida 
was  an  abstraction,  the  ideal 
of  boundless  light. 

Benten.  One  of  the  seven 
Deities  of  Luck,  frequently 
represented  riding  on  a  ser- 
pent. Her  shrines  are  mostly 
on  islands,  and  from  her 
connection  with  the  sea  she 
has  certain  points  of  resem- 
blance with  Venus.  Benten 
always  has  a  white  face. 

Biwa.  A  musical  instrument 
with  four  strings,  something 
like  a  lute. 


Boy.  Term  universal  among 
foreigners  in  the  Far  East  for  a 
male  servant,  of  whatever  age. 

Bot'chan.  A  little  boy  ;  baby  ; 
Japanese  baby  language.  De- 
rived from  bosan,  a  Buddhist 
priest  (bonze),  Japanese  babies, 
like  Buddhist  priests,  having 
completely  shaven  heads. 

Bushi.     Warrior. 

Bushido.     Way  of  the  warrior. 

Cha-no-yu.  Tea  ceremony,  from 
cha,  tea.  The  people  of  Tokyo 
and  the  initiated  call  it  chanoyt. 
This  ceremony,  religious  in  its 
inception,  has  in  the  course  of 
the  600  or  700  years  of  its 
existence  passed  through  a 
medico-religious,  a  luxurious, 
and  an  aesthetic  stage.  A 
little  of  the  religious  element 
still  clings  to  it,  tea  enthusiasts 
usually  joining  the  Zen  sect  of 
Buddhism,  while  diplomas  of 
proficiency  are  obtained  from 
the  abbot  of  Daitokuji  at 
Kyoto. 

Cha-ya.     Tea-house. 

Cloisonne.  A  species  of  mosaic, 
its  characteristic  feature  being 
a  network  of  copper,  brass,  or 
silver  wire  soldered  on  to  a 


294 


GLOSSARY 


solid  foundation  of  the  same 
metal.  The  cloisons,  or  spaces 
between  the  network,  are  then 
filled  in  with  enamel  paste. 


Daimyo,  lit.  Great  name  ;  a  feu- 
dal lord.  Before  the  Restora- 
tion of  1868  Japan  was  divided 
into  provinces,  each  ruled  by  a 
daimyo.  Every  daimyo  was 
the  head  of  a  clan  of  armed 
retainers,  the  samurai,  and 
all  samurai  had  to  belong  to 
some  daimyo.  Shortly  after 
the  Restoration  the  daimyo 
voluntarily  gave  up  their 
lands,  powers,  and  possessions 
to  the  Emperor. 


Fuji.  Usually  translated  as  "  The 
Peerless  Mountain,"  from  the 
two  Chinese  characters  with 
which,  in  poetry,  it  is  usually 
written,  meaning  "  not  two," 
"unrivalled."  In  prose  it  is 
generally  written  with  Chinese 
characters  meaning  ';  rich 
samurai."  It  can  also  be 
written  with  ideographs  mean- 
ing "  not  dying "  and  so 
•*  deathless."  Most  probably 
Fuji  is  derived  from  the  Aino 
word  push,  to  burst  forth. 

Futon.  A  sort  of  eiderdown 
quilt  made  of  silk  wadding. 
The  Japanese  spread  one  of 
these  on  the  matting  at  night 
to  sleep  on,  using  a  second  as 
a  covering.  The  native  pillow 
is  a  shaped  and  padded  piece  of 


wood   or  lacquer  which  sup- 
ports the  neck. 

Geisha.  Girls  trained  to  the 
profession  of  dancing,  singing, 
playing,  and  socially  entertain- 
ing. They  are  the  usual  ac- 
companiment to  a  Japanese 
dinner. 

Gheta.  A  sort  of  wooden  clogs 
kept  on  by  straps  passing 
between  the  big  and  second 
toes.  Gheta  are  only  worn  in 
the  street,  and  are  left  outside 
houses,  temples,  or  other 
buildings.  It  would  be  as  dis- 
respectful to  enter  a  house  or  a 
temple  with  your  gheta  on  as 
for  a  man  to  walk  into  a  church, 
or  a  drawing-room,  in  his  hat. 

Godown.  A  fire-proof  building 
for  storing  valuables.  De- 
rived from  Malay  word  gddong, 
a  warehouse. 

Hakama.  A  divided  skirt  of 
either  cotton  or  silk,  pleated 
into  a  broad  stiff  band  in  big 
pleats.  Worn  by  the  samurai 
on  official  or  ceremonial  occa- 
sions. Always  worn  by  both 
teacher  and  pupil  in  the  class- 
rooms. Also  worn  nowadays 
by  the  girl  students. 

Hibachi.  A  brazier  in  the  shape 
of  a  lidless  box  of  wood  or 
bronze  containing  charcoal, 
the  warming  apparatus  of 
Japanese  houses. 

Holland.  Considered  as  a  tribu- 
tary kingdom  of  Japan  during 
the  Tokugawa  shogunate.  be- 


GLOSSARY 


295 


cause  the  Dutch  shut  up  in  the 
island  of  Deshima.  near  Naga- 
saki, sent  yearly  presents  to 
the  shogun. 

Ijin  San.  Barbarian  ;  foreigner  ; 
or  perhaps  simply  "  strange 
man,"  and  so  foreigner. 

lyeyasu.  B.  1542,  d.  1616 
The  founder  of  the  Tokugawa 
shdgunate,  which  lasted  from 
1603  to  1868.  lyeyasu  was 
one  of  the  greatest  generals 
and  perhaps  the  very  greatest 
ruler,  Japan  has  ever  pro- 
duced. He  went  to  school  in 
the  Temple  of  Rinzaki  (p.  17), 
and  the  room  where  he  learnt 
to  write,  his  ink-slab  and  other 
belongings,  are  still  preserved, 
lyeyasu  founded  Yedo,  now 
Tokyo,  making  it  his  capital. 
He  died  at  Shizuoka,  and  was 
first  buried  at  Kuno-san  (Be- 
tween Earth  and  Heaven,  p. 
36),  and  afterwards  at  Nikko. 

Izanagi  and  Izanami.  The  Cre- 
ator and  the  Creatress  of 
Japan.  It  was  during  the 
purification  of  Izanagi  after 
his  descent  into  Hades  in 
search  of  Izanami,  a  legend 
which  has  many  points  of 
resemblance  with  that  of 
Orpheus,  that  Amaterasu,  the 
Sun-Goddess,  was  born. 

Jinricksha  or  Jinriksha.  From 
the  Chinese,  lit.  man-power- 
vehicle ;  shortened  by  Euro- 
peans into  'ricksha,  by  the 


Japanese  to  jinriki,  but  usually 
called  in  Japan  by  the  na- 
tive word  kuruma.  A  small 
two-wheeled  carriage  like  a 
miniature  hansom  or  an  old- 
fashioned  perambulator,  drawn 
by  a  man. 

Kagura.  Sacred  shinto  dance, 
whose  origin  is  supposed  to  be 
traced  back  to  the  time  when 
Amaterasu,  angry  at  the  insult 
offered  her  by  her  brother 
Susa-no-wo,  retired  to  a  cavern, 
thus  plunging  the  world  into 
darkness.  She  was  at  last 
induced  to  look  out  by  the 
sound  of  music  and  dancing, 
and  finally  enticed  right  out  by 
the  sight  of  her  own  face  in  a 
mirror.  The  dance  performed 
in  front  of  her  cavern  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  Kagura. 
(Note  the  "  g  "  here,  as  all 
medial  "  g's "  in  Japanese 
have  the  sound  of  "  ng  "  as  in 
English  "  sing."  So  Nang-o- 
ya,  not  Na-go-ya.  Some  dia- 
lects, as  that  of  Satsuma, 
say  a  hard  "  g.") 

Kakemono,  lit,  the  hanging- 
up-thing.  A  picture  painted 
on  either  silk  or  paper,  in 
either  monochrome  or  colour. 
It  is  mounted  on  brocade,  and 
has  a  roller  each  end.  Roughly 
and  quite  untechnically,  kake- 
mono can  be  divided  into  two 
classes  :  those  which  seek  to 
give  only  an  impression,  and 
those  which  are  a  kind  of 
miniature  painting. 


296 


GLOSSARY 


Kana.  Katakana  and  Hirakana, 
popularly  supposed  to  have 
been  invented,  the  first  772 
A.D.,  the  second  835  A.D.  In 
reality  they  were  not  in- 
ventions, but  simplifications 
of  certain  common  Chinese 
ideographs.  The  kana  repre- 
sent sounds,  as  does  our 
alphabet,  but  they  stand  for 
syllables,  not  letters.  They 
both  consist  of  forty-seven 
sounds,  which  by  the  addition 
of  dots  and  other  symbols 
can  be  considerably  increased. 

Kannon,  written  K(w)annon, 
Sanskrit  Avalokites-vara,  the 
Goddess  of  Mercy,  who  con- 
templates the  world  and  listens 
to  the  prayers  of  the  unhappy. 
In  the  opinion  of  a  small 
minority  Kannon  belongs  to 
the  male  sex. 

Kimono.  The  long-sleeved  robe 
of  Japan,  which  has  no  fasten- 
ing. It  is  merely  folded  across 
on  the  right-hand  side  (only 
grave-clothes  are  crossed  to  the 
left)  and  kept  in  place  by  the 
folds  of  the  obi.  Practically 
the  same  shaped  kimono  is 
worn  by  men  and  women,  the 
difference  consisting  princi- 
pally in  pattern  and  colour. 
The  number  of  kimono  worn 
depends  entirely  on  the  tem- 
perature. 

Kir  in.  A  fabulous  monster  an- 
swering to  our  griffin.  He 
degenerates  sometimes  into  a 
sort  of  three-cornered  dog, 
and  is  said  not  to  trample  on 


live  insects  nor  to  eat  live 
grass. 

Kitsune.  Fox.  It  is  the  fox 
and  the  badger  in  Japan  who 
are  credited  with  supernatural 
powers.  Foxes  are  able  to 
change  themselves  into  beauti- 
ful young  women  to  the  un- 
doing of  confiding  man.  The 
powers  of  the  badger  may  be 
comic. 

Kojiki,  or  "  Record  of  Ancient 
Matters."  The  oldest  literary 
work  of  Japan,  dating  from 
the  year  712  A.D.  It  is  a 
chronicle  partly  mythological, 
partly  historical,  of  the  doings 
of  gods,  emperors  and  men. 

Kuruma.  See  Jinricksha.  The 
Japanese  term  for  jinricksha. 

Kurumaya.  The  man  who  draws 
the  kuruma. 

Manju.  A  flat  round  cake  of 
rice  paste  filled  with  a  brown 
bean-jam. 

Meiji.  Age  of  Enlightenment  or 
Progress.  The  name  of  the 
years  from  1868  onwards. 
The  privilege  of  appointing 
year-names  is  regarded  in  the 
Far  East  as  one  of  the  rights 
of  independent  sovereignty, 
much  as  coining  money  with 
us.  In  Japan  the  length  of 
the  year-name  period  has 
been  up  to  now  purely  arbi- 
trary, not  coinciding  with  the 
reign  of  an  emperor  as  in 
China. 

Miyajima.  One  of  the  San-kei 
or  "  Three  Chief  Sights  "  of 


GLOSSARY 


297 


Japan.  An  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful island  in  the  Inland  Sea. 
It  contains  a  temple  built  on 
piles,  which  at  high  tide  seems 
to  float  on  the  water.  Ac- 
cording to  tradition,  the  first 
temple  was  erected  about 
600  A.D. 

Mma.  The  actual  pronuncia- 
tion in  the  Tokyo  district  of 
the  word  usually  Romanised  as 
Uma,  horse. 

Mme.  The  actual  pronuncia- 
tion in  the  Tokyo  district  of 
the  word  usually  Romanised 
as  Ume. 

Musme  or  Musume.  Daughter  ; 
girl ;  and  so,  waiting-girl. 

Namu-myoho-rengekyo.  San- 
skrit, lit.  "  O  !  the  Scripture  of 
the  Lotus  of  the  Wonderful 
Law." 

Nesan.  lit.  elder  sister  miss. 
Used  as  a  half-polite,  half- 
familiar  address  to  girls  ;  and 
so,  waiting-girl. 

Nichiren.  B.  1222,  d.  1282,  at 
Ikkegami,  where  some  of  his 
bones  remain  as  relics.  He 
entered  the  priesthood  at  the 
early  age  of  twelve,  when  he 
adopted  the  name  of  Nichiren, 
or  "  Lotus  of  the  Sun."  He 
miraculously  learned  the  whole 
of  the  loo  volumes  of  the 
Buddhist  canon  in  one  night. 
He  fiercely  attacked  all  the 
already  existing  Buddhist 
sects,  a  thing  unheard  of  in 
Japanese  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory ;  was  twice  banished, 


and  once  condemned  to  death, 
on  which  occasion  the  execu- 
tioner's sword  refused  to  per- 
form its  function.  His  crest 
is  the  orange  blossom. 

O  and  Go.  Polite  prefixes  usu- 
ally translated  as  "  honour- 
able "  or  "  august." 

O  Ba  San,  lit.  honourable 
grandmother  Mrs. 

Obi.  A  long  sash  usually  of 
wadded  brocade,  which  is 
folded  several  times  round  the 
waist  and  tied  behind.  The 
obi  is  the  most  expensive  part 
of  a  woman's  dress,  and  ex- 
ceptional ones  of  richest  bro- 
cade stiffened  with  gold  thread 
can  cost  as  much  as  £50  or 
more  ;  such  obi  are  handed 
down  in  families  as  heir- 
looms. 

0  hachi,  lit.  honourable  pot. 
Tub  in  which  cooked  rice  is 
kept. 

Persimmon.  A  fruit  the  size  of 
an  apple  which  can  be  round 
and  reddish,  or  orange  and 
pear-shaped.  Called  in  Jap- 
anese kaki. 

Ricksha.     See  Jinricksha. 

Rin.  10  rin  make  i  sen,  or  one 
farthing. 

Ronin,  lit.  wave-man.  Samu- 
rai without  a  feudal  lord.  He 
might  be  described  as  a 
samurai  out  of  work  either 
through  fault  or  misfortune. 
U 


298 


GLOSSARY 


Sake.  An  intoxicating  drink 
obtained  from  fermented  rice, 
containing  n  to  14  per  cent, 
of  alcohol.  It  is  generally 
drunk  warm  and  tastes  some- 
thing like  sherry. 

Samisen.  A  square  three- 
stringed  lute  with  a  long 
handle,  played  with  a  plectrum ; 
the  commonest  and  most  popu- 
lar of  the  musical  instruments 
of  Japan.  Its  notes  are  very 
tinny.  In  Tokyo  usually 
called  shamisen. 

Sampan.  A  small  flat-bottomed 
boat,  rowed  by  a  man  standing 
in  the  stern. 

Samurai,  Derived  from  the  verb 
samurau,  to  be  on  guard.  A 
term  used  in  the  early  Middle 
Ages  of  the  soldiers  of  the 
Mikado's  palace,  then  applied 
to  the  entire  warrior  class. 
The  samurai  were  "  the  gen- 
try "  of  Japan,  the  daimyo 
corresponding  to  the  peers. 
In  Old  Japan  all  gentlemen 
were  soldiers  and  all  soldiers 
gentlemen.  Since  the  Restora- 
tion, when  their  incomes  were 
commuted  for  a  lump  sum,  the 
samurai  have  had  to  earn 
their  own  livelihood.  They 
are  now  the  officers,  profes- 
sors, schoolmasters,  policemen, 
officials,  practically  the  whole 
governing  class  of  Japan. 

San.  Contraction  of  sama.  A 
title  such  as  our  Mr.,  but  used 
for  both  sexes  and  all  ages. 

Semmi.  Cicada.  Japan  grows 
innumerable  semmi  of  many 


kinds.  A  favourite  amuse- 
ment of  boys  is  to  catch  them 
and  keep  them  in  small  cages 
of  green  net. 

Sen.     \d.     100  sen  make  i  yen. 

Shappo.  From  the  French 
chapeau.  The  modern  name 
for  the  modern  "  foreign  " 
bat.  Old  Japan  knew  no 
hats. 

Shinto,  lit.  the  way  of  the 
gods.  This,  the  native  religion 
of  Japan,  is  a  combination  of 
ancestor-  and  nature-  worship. 
Its  priesthood  is  not  a  caste, 
nor  even  a  separate  profession. 
Up  to  the  time  of  the  revival 
of  Shintoism,  due  to  the 
Restoration  of  power  to  the 
Mikado,  everybody  was  born 
with  Shinto  and  buried  with 
Buddhist  rites.  The  whole 
Japanese  nation  is  supposed  to 
be  descended  from  the  lesser 
Shinto  deities,  while  the 
Emperor  is  the  direct  de- 
scendant of  Amaterasu. 

Shogun,  lit.  generalissimo.  A 
title  first  used  in  813  A.D.,  and 
continued  down  to  1868.  In 
the  twelfth  century  the  shogun 
Yoritomo  first  contrived  to 
become  the  effective  ruler  of 
the  land  ;  thus  originating  the 
dual  control  of  Japan,  the 
temporal  power  belonging  to 
the  shogun,  the  spiritual  to 
the  Emperor.  Yoritomo  was 
succeeded  by  various  dynasties 
of  shogun  until  lyeyasu  founded 
the  Tokugawa  shogunate  in 
1600. 


GLOSSARY 


299 


Shoji.  The  sliding  wall  of  a 
house,  like  an  immense  lattice 
window  whose  leadings  are 
wood  and  whose  panes  are 
rice-paper,  Shoji  are  semi- 
transparent,  and  divide  the 
room  from  the  outer  world. 
The  walls  which  divide  one 
room  from  another  are  called 
karakami  or  fusumi,  and  are  of 
opaque  paper.  They  slide  in 
grooves  and  can  be  entirely 
removed  when  required. 

Susa-no-wo,  lit.  the  Impetuous 
Male  Deity,  was  born  from  the 
nose  of  the  creator  Izanagi. 
It  was  owing  to  the  insult 
which  he  offered  his  sister 
Amaterasu  by  breaking  a  hole 
in  the  roof  of  the  hall  of  heaven 
where  she  sat  weaving  with 
her  celestial  maidens,  and 
dropping  down  into  it  "a 
heavenly  piebald  horse  flayed 
with  a  backward  flaying  "  that 
the  Sun-Goddess  retired  to  the 
cavern  and  left  the  world  in 
darkness.  Susa-no-wo  was 
the  ancestor  of  the  rulers  of 
Izumo,  who  finally  gave  up 
their  throne  to  the  descendants 
of  the  Sun-Goddess,  accepting 
a  spiritual  for  an  earthly 
homage.  Susa-no-wo  is  some- 
times considered  as  the  God 
of  the  Moon,  sometimes  as  the 
God  of  the  Sea. 

Suzuki  Tetsutaro.  The  family 
name  in  Japan  always  comes 
first,  the  "  Christian  "  name 
after,  as  Smith  John.  Suzuki 
is  one  of  the  commonest  of 


Japanese  surnames  of  samu- 
rai rank,  Hayashi  running  it 
very  close.  Tetsutaro,  lit. 
own  eldest  son. 


Tabi.  Half-boots  fastening  up 
on  the  inner,  not  the  outer, 
side,  as  with  us.  They  are 
made  of  cotton,  and  the  sole 
is  a  soft  sock.  There  is  a 
separate  compartment  for  the 
big  toe.  Tabi  are  of  either 
dark  blue  or  white  cotton  ; 
white  is  for  house  and  street 
wear  ;  dark  blue  for  hard  work 
or  walking,  and  mostly  worn 
by  the  lower  classes. 

Tenshisama.  Chinese  term  mean- 
ing Son  of  Heaven,  from  ten, 
heaven.  Sama  is  the  longer 
and  more  courteous  form  of 
san.  The  Emperor  is  also 
called  Tenno,  Heavenly  Em- 
peror, or  Shujo,  the  Supreme 
Master  ;  all  Chinese  terms. 
The  word  Mikado  is  very  rarely 
used  by  the  Japanese  except 
in  poetry  or  on  great  occasions. 

Tofu.  A  white  bean-curd,  look- 
ing like  cream  cheese.  A 
favourite  food  of  the  coolie. 

Tokonoma.  A  raised  alcove. 
Probably  it  was  originally  that 
part  of  a  room  raised  above 
the  level  of  the  earth  floor,  on 
which  people  slept. 

Tokugawa.  The  family  name  of 
lyeyasu  and  so  of  the  sho- 
gunate  founded  by  him.  The 
last  shogun,  who  abdicated  in 
1868.  is  still  living. 


300 


GLOSSARY 


Tokyo.  The  modern  name  for 
Yedo,  meaning  the  Eastern 
Capital 

Ton.  A  gateway  without  a 
gate  formed  of  two  perpendicu- 
lar and  two  horizontal  beams, 
which  at  first  stood  in  front  of 
every  shinto  temple.  When 
the  Buddhists  adopted  it  they 
turned  up  the  ends  in  a  glo- 
rious curve,  and  used  it  for 
affixing  tablets.  Popular  ety- 
mology derives  it  from  tori, 
fowl,  and  i  (iru),  dwelling, 
regarding  it  as  a  perch  for  the 
sacred  birds.  It  probably 
came  from  Northern  India, 
where  similar  gateways  called 
turan  are  found  outside  burial- 
grounds.  Cf.  Luchuan  turi. 

Uchi,  lit,  inside  ;  and  so,  house. 

Uguisu.  A  small  brown  bird, 
the  cettria  cantans,  with  a 
simple  but  exquisite  song. 

Urashima.  The  Rip  Van  Winkle 
of  Japanese  folk-lore.  He 
married  the  Sea  King's 
daughter.  After  a  short  honey- 
moon he  came  back  to  visit 
his  parents.  But  the  oldest 
inhabitant  of  the  village  could 


only  dimly  remember  the  family 
tombstones  in  the  graveyard. 
Thinking  he  was  the  victim 
of  an  illusion,  Urashima  rashly 
opened  a  box  the  Sea 
Princess  had  given  him.  In- 
stantly a  grey  smoke  went  up 
to  heaven,  and  Urashima 
changed  from  a  stalwart  youth 
to  an  old  man,  sank  down  on 
the  seashore  and  died.  He 
was  a  thousand  years  old. 

Yedo.     The    original    name    of 

Tokyo,  given  it  by  its  founder 

lyeyasu. 
Yashiki.    The  house  or  enclosure 

of    a     noble     or    honourable 

person. 
Yen.     The  Japanese  money  unit, 

worth  2S.  \d. 

Waraji.  A  straw  sandal  fasten- 
ing securely  with  long  twisted 
strings  of  straw.  The  straw 
turns  up  slightly  round  the 
back  of  the  heel.  Waraji  are 
for  travelling. 

Zashki.  The  room  ;  parlour  ;  the 
sitting-room  of  a  house. 


For  much  of  the  information    contained   in   these    notes 
indebted  to  the  works  of  Prof.  B.  H.  Chamberlain. 


I   am 


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